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PORTRAIT  OF  THOMAS  CARLYLE 

By  J.  A.  McNeil  Whistler 

Purchased  by  the  City  of  Glasgow,  and  now  in 
the  Municipal  Gallery 

"Alton  Locke"  was  refused  by  Kingsley's 
publisher — it  was  probably  the  intervention  of 
Thomas  Carlyle  that  caused  it  to  be  published 
by  Chapman  &  Hall.  "Saunders  Mackaye,  my 
invaluable  countryman  in  this  book,  is  nearly 
perfect,"  said  Carlyle,  when  he  first  rfad  the 
story.  Kingsley's  son,  Maurice,  tells  us  that 
his  father  had  Carlyle  in  mind  when  drawing 
the  portrait  of  Sandy. 

"  'Sandy,  my  lad,'  my  father  used  to  say, 
'a  man  kens  just  as  much  as  he's  taught 
himsel',  and  na  mair.  So  get  wisdom ;  and  wi' 
all  your  getting,  get  understanding.'  " 

"Alton  Locke,'* 
Vol.  I.  p.  174 


THE     BIDEFORD    EDITION 


NOVELS,    POEMS  &•  LETTERS 
OF    CHARLES    KINGSLEY 


Alton  Locke 

VOLUME  I 
BY  CHARLES  [KINGSLEY 

WITH    A    PREFATORY    MEMOIR 
BY  THOMAS    HUGHES 

ILLUSTRATED 


NEW   YORK  AND  LONDON 

THE    CO-OPERATIVE 
PUBLICATION  SOCIETY 


Copyright,  1898 
By  J.  F.  Taylor  &  Company 


Alton  Locke. 
Volnm*  I. 


THE  NOVELS 

AND   POEMS  OF 

CHARLES  KINGSLEY 


VoLUI— 1 


CONTENTS 

VOLUME   I 

Pkefatory  Memoir >••  ^ 

Cheap  Clothes  and  Nasty 69 

Preface — to  the  Undergraduates  of  Cambridge     .  101 

Preface — to  the  Workingmen  of  Great  Britain    .  123 

CHAPTER 

I.  A  Poet's  Childhood 131 

II.  The  Tailor's  Workroom 153 

III.  Sandy  Mackaye 173 

IV.  Tailors  and  Soldiers 184 

V.  The  Sceptic's  Mother    .    ,    .    .   , 200 

VI.  The  Dulwich  Gallery 213 

VII.  First  Love 232 

VIII.  Light  in  a  Dark  Place 245 

IX.  Poetry  and  Poets 259 

X.  How  Folks  turn  Chartists 268 

XL  "The  Yard  where  the  Gentlemen  Live*  .    .  288 

XII.  Cambridge , 301 

XIII.  The  Lost  Idol  Found •   •    •    *  315 


ALTON    LOCKE 


PREFATORY    MEMOIR 

THE  tract  appended  to  this  preface  has  been 
chosen  to  accompany  this  reprint  of  "  Alton 
Locke  "  in  order  to  illustrate,  from  another  side,  a 
distinct  period  in  the  life  of  Charles  Kingsley, 
which  stands  out  very  much  by  itself.  It  may  be 
taken  roughly  to  have  extended  from  1848  to  1856. 
It  has  been  thought  that  they  require  a  preface, 
and  I  have  undertaken  to  write  it,  as  one  of  the 
few  survivors  of  those  who  were  most  intimately 
associated  with  the  author  at  the  time  to  which  the 
works  refer. 

No  easy  task ;  for,  look  at  them  from  what  point 
we  will,  these  years  must  be  allowed  to  cover  an 
anxious  and  critical  time  in  modern  English  his- 
tory, but,  above  all,  in  the  history  of  the  working 
classes.  In  the  first  of  them  the  Chartist  ag-tation 
came  to  a  head  and  burst,  and  was  followed  by 
the  great  movement  towards  association,  which, 
developing  in  two  directions  and  by  two  distinct 
methods  —  represented  respectively  by  the  amal- 
gamated trades  unions,  and  co-operative  soci- 
eties —  has  in  the  intervening  years  entirely 
changed  the  conditions  of  the  labor  question  in 
England,  and  the  relations  of  the  working  to  the 
upper  and  middle  classes.  It  is  with  this,  the 
social  and  industrial  side  of  the  history  of  those 


2  Prefatory  Memoir 

years,  that  we  are  mainly  concerned  here.  Charles 
Kingsley  has  left  other  and  more  important  writ- 
ings of  those  years.  But  these  are  beside  our 
purpose,  which  is  to  give  some  such  slight  sketch 
of  him  as  may  be  possible  within  the  limits  of  a 
preface,  in  the  character  in  which  he  was  first 
widely  known,  as  the  most  outspoken  and  power- 
ful of  those  who  took  the  side  of  the  laboring 
classes  at  a  critical  time  —  the  crisis,  in  a  word, 
when  they  abandoned  their  old  political  weapons, 
for  the  more  potent  one  of  union  and  association, 
which  has  since  carried  them  so  far. 

To  no  one  of  all  those  to  whom  his  memory  is 
very  dear  can  this  seem  a  superfluous  task,  for  no 
writer  was  ever  more  misunderstood  or  better 
abused  at  the  time,  and  after  the  lapse  of  almost  a 
quarter  of  a  century  the  misunderstanding  would 
seem  still  to  hold  its  ground.  For  through  all  the 
many  notices  of  him  which  appeared  after  his  death 
in  last  January  [1875],  there  ran  the  same  apolo- 
getic tone  as  to  this  part  of  his  life's  work.  While 
generally,  and  as  a  rule  cordially,  recognizing  his 
merits  as  an  author,  and  a  man,  the  writers  seemed 
to  agree  in  passing  lightly  over  this  ground. 
When  it  was  touched  it  was  in  a  tone  of  apology, 
sometimes  tinged  with  sarcasm,  as  in  the  curt  notice 
in  the  "  Times  "  —  "  He  was  understood  to  be  the 
Parson  Lot  of  those  *  Politics  for  the  People '  which 
made  no  little  noise  in  their  time,  and  as  Parson 
Lot  he  declared  in  burning  language  that  to  his 
mind  the  fault  in  the  '  People's  Charter '  was  that 
it  did  not  go  nearly  far  enough."  And  so  the 
writer  turns  away,  as  do  most  of  his  brethren,  leav- 
ing probably  some  such  impression  as  this  on  the 
minds  of  most  of  their  readers  —  "  Young  men  of 


Prefatory  Memoir  3 

power  and  genius  are  apt  to  start  with  wild  notions. 
He  was  no  exception.  Parson  Lot's  sayings  and 
doings  may  well  be  pardoned  for  what  Charles 
Kingsley  said  and  did  in  after  years ;  so  let  us  drop 
a  decent  curtain  over  them,  and  pass  on." 

Now,  as  very  nearly  a  generation  has  passed 
since  that  signature  used  to  appear  at  the  foot  of 
some  of  the  most  noble  and  vigorous  writing  of 
our  time,  readers  of  to-day  are  not  unlikely  to  ac- 
cept this  view,  and  so  to  find  further  confirmation 
and  encouragement  in  the  example  of  Parson  Lot 
for  the  mischievous  and  cowardly  distrust  of  any- 
thing like  enthusiasm  amongst  young  men,  already 
sadly  too  prevalent  in  England.  If  it  were  only 
as  a  protest  against  this  "  surtout  point  de  zele  " 
spirit,  against  which  it  was  one  of  Charles  Kings- 
ley's  chief  tasks  to  fight  with  all  his  strength,  it  is 
well*  that  the  facts  should  be  set  right.  This  done, 
readers  may  safely  be  left  to  judge  what  need  there 
is  for  the  apologetic  tone  in  connection  with  the 
name,  the  sayings,  and  doings  of  Parson  Lot. 

My  first  meeting  with  him  was  in  the  autumn  of 
1848,  at  the  house  of  Mr.  Maurice,  who  had  lately 
been  appointed  Reader  of  Lincoln's  Inn.  No  paro- 
chial work  is  attached  to  that  post,  so  Mr.  Maurice 
had  undertaken  the  charge  of  a  small  district  in 
the  parish  in  which  he  lived,  and  had  set  a  number 
of  young  men,  chiefly  students  of  the  Inns  of  Court 
who  had  been  attracted  by  his  teaching,  to  work 
in  it.  Once  a  week,  on  Monday  evenings,  they 
used  to  meet  at  his  house  for  tea,  when  their  own 
work  was  reported  upon  and  talked  over.  Sugges- 
tions were  made  and  plans  considered ;  and  after- 
wards a  chapter  of  the  Bible  was  read  and  discussed. 
Friends  and  old  pupils  of  Mr.  Maurice's,  residing 


4  Prefatory  Memoir 

in  the  country,  or  in  distant  parts  of  London,  were 
in  the  habit  of  coming  occasionally  to  these  meet- 
ings, amongst  whom  was  Charles  Kingsley.  He 
had  been  recently  appointed  Rector  of  Eversley, 
and  was  already  well  known  as  the  author  of  "  The 
Saint's  Tragedy,"  his  first  work,  which  contained 
the  germ  of  much  that  he  did  afterwards. 

His  poem,  and  the  high  regard  and  admiration 
which  Mr.  Maurice  had  for  him,  made  him  a  nota- 
ble figure  in  that  small  society,  and  his  presence 
was  always  eagerly  looked  for.  What  impressed 
me  most  about  him  when  we  first  met  was,  his 
affectionate  deference  to  Mr.  Maurice,  and  the  vigor 
and  incisiveness  of  everything  he  said  and  did.  He 
had  the  power  of  cutting  out  what  he  meant  in  a 
few  clear  words,  beyond  any  one  I  have  ever  met. 
The  next  thing  that  struck  one  was  the  ease  with 
which  he  could  turn  from  playfulness,  or  even 
broad  humor,  to  the  deepest  earnest  At  first  I 
think  this  startled  most  persons,  until  they  came 
to  find  out  the  real  deep  nature  of  the  man ;  and 
that  his  broadest  humor  had  its  root  in  a  faith 
which  realized,  with  extraordinary  vividness,  the 
fact  that  God's  Spirit  is  actively  abroad  in  the 
world,  and  that  Christ  is  in  every  man,  and  made 
him  hold  fast,  even  in  his  saddest  moments,  —  and 
sad  moments  were  not  infrequent  with  him,  —  the 
assurance  that,  in  spite  of  all  appearances,  the 
world  was  going  right,  and  would  go  right  some- 
how, "  Not  your  way,  or  my  way,  but  God's  way." 
The  contrast  of  his  humility  and  audacity,  of  his 
distrust  in  himself  and  confidence  in  himself,  was 
one  of  those  puzzles  which  meet  us  daily  in  this 
world  of  paradox.  But  both  qualities  gave  him  a 
peculiar  power  for  the  work  he  had  to  do  at  that 


Prefatory  Memoir  5 

time,  with  which  the  name  of  Parson  Lot  is 
associated. 

It  was  at  one  of  these  gatherings,  towards  the 
end  of  1847  or  early  in  1848,  when  Kingsley  found 
himself  in  a  minority  of  one,  that  he  said  jokingly, 
he  felt  much  as  Lot  must  have  felt  in  the  Cities  of 
the  Plain,  when  he  seemed  as  one  that  mocked  to 
his  sons-in-law.  The  name  Parson  Lot  was  then  and 
there  suggested,  and  adopted  by  him,  as  a  famiUar 
nom  de plume.  He  used  it  from  1848  up  to  1856; 
at  first  constantly,  latterly  much  more  rarely.  But 
the  name  was  chiefly  made  famous  by  his  writings 
in  "  Politics  for  the  People,"  the  "  Christian  Social- 
ist," and  the  "Journal  of  Association,"  three  period- 
icals which  covered  the  years  from  '48  to  '52;  by 
**  Alton  Locke ;  "  and  by  tracts  and  pamphlets,  of 
which  the  best  known,  "  Cheap  Clothes  and  Nasty," 
is  now  republished. 

In  order  to  understand  and  judge  the  sayings 
and  writings  of  Parson  Lot  fairly,  it  is  necessary  to 
recall  the  condition  of  the  England  of  that  day. 
Through  the  winter  of  1847-8,  amidst  widespread 
distress,  the  cloud  of  discontent,  of  which  Chartism 
was  the  most  violent  symptom,  had  been  growing 
darker  and  more  menacing,  while  Ireland  was  only 
held  down  by  main  force.  The  breaking  out  of 
the  revolution  on  the  Continent  in  February  in- 
creased the  danger.  In  March  there  were  riots  in 
London,  Glasgow,  Edinburgh,  Liverpool,  and  other 
large  towns.  On  April  7th,  the  "  Crown  and 
Government  Security  Bill,"  commonly  called  "  the 
gagging  act,"  was  introduced  by  the  Government, 
the  first  reading  carried  by  265  to  24,  and  the 
second  a  few  days  later  by  452  to  35.  On  the 
loth  of  April  the  Government  had  to  fill  London 


6  Prefatory  Memoir 

with  troops,  and  put  the  Duke  of  Wellington  in 
command,  who  barricaded  the  bridges  and  Down- 
ing Street,  garrisoned  the  Bank  and  other  public 
buildings,  and  closed  the  Horse  Guards. 

When  the  momentary  crisis  had  passed,  the  old 
soldier  declared  in  the  House  of  Lords  that  "  no 
great  society  had  ever  suffered  as  London  had 
during  the  preceding  days,"  while  the  Home 
Secretary  telegraphed  to  all  the  chief  magistrates 
of  the  kingdom  the  joyful  news  that  the  peace  had 
been  kept  in  London.  In  April,  the  Lord  Chan- 
cellor, in  introducing  the  Crown  and  Government 
Security  Bill  in  the  House  of  Lords,  referred  to 
the  fact  that  "  meetings  were  daily  held,  not  only 
in  London,  but  in  most  of  the  manufacturing 
towns,  the  avowed  object  of  which  was  to  array 
the  people  against  the  constituted  authority  of 
these  realms."  For  months  afterwards  the  Char- 
tist movement,  though  plainly  subsiding,  kept  the 
Government  in  constant  anxiety;  and  again  in 
June,  the  Bank,  the  Mint,  the  Custom  House,  and 
other  public  offices  were  filled  with  troops,  and 
the  Houses  of  Parliament  were  not  only  garrisoned 
but  provisioned  as  if  for  a  siege. 

From  that  time,  all  fear  of  serious  danger  passed 
away.  The  Chartists  were  completely  discouraged, 
and  their  leaders  in  prison ;  and  the  upper  and 
middle  classes  were  recovering  rapidly  from  the 
alarm  which  had  converted  a  million  of  them  into 
special  constables,  and  were  beginning  to  doubt 
whether  the  crisis  had  been  so  serious  after  all, 
whether  the  disaffection  had  ever  been  more  than 
skin  deep.  At  this  juncture  a  series  of  articles 
appeared  in  the  "  Morning  Chronicle  "  on  "  Lon- 
don Labor  and  the  London  Poor,"   which  startled 


Prefatory  Memoir  7 

the  well-to-do  classes  out  of  their  jubilant  and 
scornful  attitude,  and  disclosed  a  state  of  things 
which  made  all  fair-minded  people  wonder,  not 
that  there  had  been  violent  speaking  and  some 
rioting,  but  that  the  metropolis  had  escaped  the 
scenes  which  had  lately  been  enacted  in  Paris, 
Vienna,  Berlin,  and  other  Continental  capitals. 

It  is  only  by  an  effort  that  one  can  now  realize 
the  strain  to  which  the  nation  was  subjected  dur- 
ing that  winter  and  spring,  and  which,  of  course, 
tried  every  individual  man  also,  according  to  the 
depth  and  earnestness  of  his  political  and  social 
convictions  and  sympathies.  The  group  of  men 
who  were  working  under  Mr.  Maurice  were  no 
exceptions  to  the  rule.  The  work  of  teaching  and 
visiting  was  not  indeed  neglected,  but  the  larger 
questions  which  were  being  so  strenuously  mooted 
—  the  points  of  the  people's  charter,  the  right  of 
public  meeting,  the  attitude  of  the  laboring  class  *" 
to  the  other  classes  —  absorbed  more  and  more 
of  their  attention.  Kingsley  was  very  deeply 
impressed  with  the  gravity  and  danger  of  the 
crisis  —  more  so,  I  think,  than  almost  any  of  his 
friends;  probably  because,  as  a  country  parson, 
he  was  more  directly  in  contact  with  one  class  of 
the  poor  than  any  of  them.  How  deeply  he  felt 
for  the  agricultural  poor,  how  faithfully  he  re- 
flected the  passionate  and  restless  sadness  of  the 
time,  may  be  read  in  the  pages  of  "  Yeast,"  which 
was  then  coming  out  in  "  Fraser."  As  the  win- 
ter months  went  on,  this  sadness  increased,  and 
seriously  affected  his  health. 

"  I  have  a  longing,"  he  wrote  to  Mr.  Ludlow, 
"  to  do  something —  what,  God  only  knows.  You 
say,  '  he  that  believeth  will  not  make  haste,'  but 


8  Prefatory  Memoir 

I  think  he  that  believeth  must  make  haste,  or  get 
damned  with  the  rest.  But  I  will  do  anything  that 
anybody  likes  —  I  have  no  confidence  m  myself  or 
in  anything  but  God.  I  am  not  great  enough  for 
such  times,  alas  !  *  n^ pour  f aire  des  vers,'  as  Camille 
Desmoulins  said." 

This  longing  became  so  strong,  as  the  crisis  in 
April  approached,  that  he  came  to  London  to  see 
what  could  be  done,  and  to  get  help  from  Mr. 
Maurice,  and  those  whom  he  had  been  used  to 
meet  at  his  house.  He  found  them  a  divided  body. 
The  majority  were  sworn  in  as  special  constables,  and 
several  had  openly  sided  with  the  Chartists ;  while 
he  himself,  with  Mr.  Maurice  and  Mr.  Ludlow,  was 
unable  to  take  active  part  with  either  side.  The 
following  extract  from  a  letter  to  his  wife,  written  on 
the  9th  of  April,  shows  how  he  was  employed 
during  these  days,  and  how  he  found  the  work 
which  he  was  in  search  of,  the  first  result  of  which 
was  the  publication  of  "  those  '  Politics  for  the  Peo- 
ple '  which  made  no  small  noise  in  their  times  "  — 

"  April  I  ith,  1848.  —  The  events  of  a  week  have 
been  crowded  into  a  few  hours.  I  was  up  till  four 
this  morning  —  writing  posting  placards,  under 
Maurice's  auspices,  one  of  which  is  to  be  got  out 
to-morrow  morning,  the  rest  when  we  can  get 
money.  Could  you  not  beg  a  few  sovereigns 
somewhere  to  help  these  poor  wretches  to  the 
truest  alms !  —  to  words,  texts  from  the  Psalms, 
anything  which  may  keep  even  one  man  from 
cutting  his  brother's  throat  to-morrow  or  Friday? 
Pray,  pray,  help  us.  Maurice  has  given  me  a 
highest  proof  of  confidence.  He  has  taken  me 
to  counsel,  and  we  are  to  have  meetings  for 
prayer  and  study,  when  I  come  up  to  Londorv 


Prefatory  Memoir  9 

and  we  are  to  bring  out  a  new  set  of  real  *  Tracts 
for  the  Times,'  addressed  to  the  highest  orders. 
Maurice  is  d  la  hauteur  des  circonstances  —  deter- 
mined to  make  a  decisive  move.  He  says,  if  the 
Oxford  Tracts  did  wonders,  why  should  not  we? 
Pray  for  us.  A  glorious  future  is  opening,  and 
both  Maurice  and  Ludlow  seem  to  have  driven 
away  all  my  doubts  and  sorrow,  and  I  see  the 
blue  sky  again,  and  my  Father's  face !  " 

The  arrangements  for  the  publication  of"  Politics 
for  the  People  "  were  soon  made ;  and  in  one  of  the 
earliest  numbers,  for  May,  1848,  appeared  the  paper 
which  furnishes  what  ground  there  is  for  the  state- 
ment, already  quotejl,  that "  he  declared,  in  burning 
language,  that  the  People's  Charter  did  not  go  far 
enough."  It  was  No.  i  of  "  Parson  Lot's  Letters 
to  the  Chartists."     Let  us  read  it  with  its  context. 

"  I  am  not  one  of  those  who  laugh  at  your  peti- 
tion of  the  1 0th  of  April:  I  have  no  patience  with 
those  who  do.  Suppose  there  were  but  250,000 
honest  names  on  that  sheet  —  suppose  the  Charter 
itself  were  all  stuff — yet  you  have  still  a  right 
to  fair  play,  a  patient  hearing,  an  honorable  and 
courteous  answer,  whichever  way  it  may  be.  But 
my  only  quarrel  with  the  Charter  is  that  it  does  not 
go  far  enough  in  reform.  I  want  to  see  you  free, 
but  I  do  not  see  that  what  you  ask  for  will  give 
you  what  you  want.  I  think  you  have  fallen  into 
just  the  same  mistake  as  the  rich,  of  whom  you 
complain  —  the  very  mistake  which  has  been  our 
curse  and  our  nightmare.  I  mean  the  mistake  of  \ 
fancying  that  legislative  reform  is  social  reform,  or 
that  men's  hearts  can  be  changed  by  Act  of  Parlia- 
ment. If  any  one  will  tell  me  of  a  country  where 
a  Charter  made  the  rogues  honest,  or  the  idle  in- 


lo  Prefatory  Memoir 

dustrious,  I  will  alter  my  opinion  of  the  Charter, 
but  not  till  then.  It  disappointed  me  bitterly  when 
I  read  it.  It  seemed  a  harmless  cry  enough,  but  a 
poor  bald  constitution-mongering  cry  as  ever  I 
heard.  The  French  cry  of  *  organization  of  labor ' 
is  worth  a  thousand  of  it,  but  yet  that  does  not 
go  to  the  bottom  of  the  matter  by  many  a  mile." 
And  then,  after  telling  how  he  went  to  buy  a  num- 
ber of  the  Chartist  newspaper,  and  found  it  in  a 
shop  which  sold  "  flash  songsters,"  "  the  Swell's 
Guide,"  and  "  dirty  milksop  French  novels,"  and 
that  these  publications,  and  a  work  called  "The 
Devil's  Pulpit,"  were  puffed  in  its  columns,  he  goes 
on :  "  These  are  strange  times.  I  thought  the  devil 
used  to  befriend  tyrants  and  oppressors,  but  he 
seems  to  have  profited  by  Burns's  advice  to  'tak  a 
thought  and  mend.'  I  thought  the  struggling  free- 
man's  watchword  was :    *  God   sees   my  wrongs.' 

*  He  hath  taken  the  matter  into  His  own  hands.' 

*  The  poor  committeth  himself  unto  Him,  for  He 
is  the  helper  of  the  friendless.*  But  now  the  devil 
seems  all  at  once  to  have  turned  philanthropist  and 
patriot,  and  to  intend  himself  to  fight  the  good 
cause,  against  which  he  has  been  fighting  ever 
since  Adam's  time.  I  don't  deny,  my  friends,  it 
is  much  cheaper  and  pleasanter  to  be  reformed  by 
the  devil  than  by  God ;  for  God  will  only  reform 
society  on  the  condition  of  our  reforming  every 
man  his  own  self —  while  the  devil  is  quite  ready 
to  help  us  to  mend  the  laws  and  the  parliament, 
earth  and  heaven,  without  ever  starting  such  an 
impertinent  and  '  personal '  request,  as  that  a  man 
should  mend  himself.  That  liberty  of  the  subject 
he  will  always  respect."  —  "  But  I  say  honestly, 
whomsoever  I  may  offend,  the  more  I  have  read 


Prefatory  Memoir  1 1 

of  your  convention  speeches  and  newspaper  arti- 
cles, the  more  I  am  convinced  that  too  many  of 
you  are  trying  to  do  God's  work  with  the  devil's 
tools.  What  is  the  use  of  brilliant  language  about 
peace,  and  the  majesty  of  order,  and  universal  love, 
though  it  may  all  be  printed  in  letters  a  foot  long, 
when  it  runs  in  the  same  train  with  ferocity,  rail- 
ing, mad,  one-eyed  excitement,  talking  itself  into 
a  passion  like  a  street  woman  ?  Do  you  fancy  that 
after  a  whole  column  spent  in  stirring  men  up  to 
fury,  a  few  twaddling  copybook  headings  about 
'  the  sacred  duty  of  order  '  will  lay  the  storm  again  ? 
What  spirit  is  there  but  the  devil's  spirit  in  blood- 
thirsty threats  of  revenge?"  —  "I  denounce  the 
weapons  which  you  have  been  deluded  into  em- 
ploying to  gain  you  your  rights,  and  the  indecency 
and  profligacy  which  you  are  letting  be  mixed 
up  with  them !  Will  you  strengthen  and  justify 
your  enemies?  Will  you  disgust  and  eripple  your 
friends?  Will  you  go  out  of  your  way  to  do 
wrong?  When  you  can  be  free  by  fair  means, 
will  you-  try  foul?  When  you  might  keep  the 
name  of  Liberty  as  spotless  as  the  Heaven  from 
which  she  comes,  will  you  defile  her  with  blas- 
phemy, beastliness,  and  blood?  When  the  cause 
of  the  poor  is  the  cause  of  Almighty  God,  will 
you  take  it  out  of  His  hands  to  entrust  it  to  the 
devil?  These  are  bitter  questions,  but  as  you 
answer  them  so  will  you  prosper." 

In  Letter  IL  he  tells  them  that  if  they  have  fol- 
lowed a  different  "  Reformer's  Guide  "  from  his,  it 
is  "  mainly  the  fault  of  us  parsons,  who  have  never 
told  you  that  the  true  '  Reformer's  Guide,'  the  true 
poor  man's  book,  the  true  '  Voice  of  God  against 
tyrants,  idlers,  and  humbugs,  was  the  Bible.'     The 


12  Prefatory  Memoir 

Bible  demands  for  the  poor  as  much,  and  more, 
than  they  demand  for  themselves ;  it  expresses  the 
deepest  yearnings  of  the  poor  man's  heart  far  more 
nobly,  more  searchingly,  more  daringly,  more  elo- 
quently, than  any  modern  orator  has  done.  I  say, 
it  gives  a  ray  of  hope  —  say  rather  a  certain  dawn 
of  a  glorious  future,  such  as  no  universal  suffrage, 
free  trade,  communism,  organization  of  labor, 
or  any  other  Morrison's-pill-measure  can  give  — 
and  yet  of  a  future,  which  will  embrace  all  that  is 
good  in  these  —  a  future  of  conscience,  of  justice, 
of  freedom,  when  idlers  and  oppressors  shall  no 
more  dare  to  plead  parchments  and  Acts  of  Parlia- 
ment for  their  iniquities.  I  say  the  Bible  promises 
this,  not  in  a  few  places  only,  but  throughout;  it 
is  the  thought  which  runs  through  the  whole  Bible, 
justice  from  God  to  those  whom  men  oppress,  glory 
from  God  to  those  whom  men  despise.  Does  that 
look  like  the  invention  of  tyrants,  and  prelates? 
You  may  sneer,  but  give  me  a  fair  hearing,  and  if 
I  do  not  prove  my  words^  then  call  me  the  same 
hard  name  which  I  shall  call  any  man,  who  having 
read  the  Bible,  denies  that  it  is  the  poor  man's  com- 
fort and  the  rich  man's  warning." 

In  subsequent  numbers  (as  afterwards  in  the 
"  Christian  Socialist,"  and  the  "Journal  of  Associa- 
tion ")  he  dwells  in  detail  on  the  several  popular 
cries,  such  as,  "  a  fair  day's  wage  for  a  fair  day's 
work,"  illustrating  them  from  the  Bible,  urging  his 
readers  to  take  it  as  the  true  Radical  Reformer's 
Guide,  if  they  were  longing  for  the  same  thing  as  he 
was  longing  for  —  to  see  all  humbug,  idleness,  in- 
justice, swept  out  of  England.  His  other  contribu- 
tions to  these  periodicals  consisted  of  some  of  his 
best  short  poems :  "  The  Day  of  the  Lord ;  "  "  The 


Prefatory  Memoir  13 

Three  Fishers  ;"  "  Old  and  New,"  and  others;  of 
a  series  of  Letters  on  the  Frimley  murder;  of  a 
short  story  called  "  The  Nun's  Pool,"  and  of  some 
most  charming  articles  on  the  pictures  in  the  Na- 
tional Gallery,  and  the  collections  in  the  British 
Museum,  intended  to  teach  the  English  people  how 
to  use  and  enjoy  their  own  property. 

I  think  I  know  every  line  which  was  ever  pub- 
lished under  the  signature  Parson  Lot ;  and  I  take 
it  upon  myself  to  say,  that  there  is  in  all  that 
"  burning  language  "  nothing  more  revolutionary 
than  the  extracts  given  above  from  his  letters  to 
the  Chartists. 

But,  it  may  be  said,  apart  from  his  writings,  did 
not  Parson  Lot  declare  himself  a  Chartist  in  a  pub- 
lic meeting  in  London ;  and  did  he  not  preach  in  a 
London  pulpit  a  political  sermon,  which  brought 
up  the  incumbent,  who  had  invited  him,  to  protest 
from  the  altar  against  the  doctrine  which  had  just 
been  delivered? 

Yes !  Both  statements  are  true.  Here  are  the 
facts  as  to  the  speech,  those  as  to  the  sermon  I 
will  give  in  their  place.  In  the  early  summer  of 
1848  some  of  those  who  felt  with  C.  Kingsley  that 
the  "  People's  Charter  "  had  not  had  fair  play  or 
courteous  treatment,  and  that  those  who  signed  it 
had  real  wrongs  to  complain  of,  put  themselves  into 
communication  with  the  leaders,  and  met  and  talked 
with  them.  At  last  it  seemed  that  the  time  was 
come  for  some  more  public  meeting,  and  one  was 
called  at  the  Cranbourn  Tavern,  over  which  Mr. 
Maurice  presided.  After  the  president's  address 
several  very  bitter  speeches  followed,  and  a  vehe- 
ment attack  was  specially  directed  against  the 
Church    and   the    clergy.      The    meeting    waxed 


14  Prefatory  Memoir 

warm,  and  seemed  likely  to  come  to  no  good, 
when  Kingsley  rose,  folded  his  arms  across  his 
chest,  threw  his  head  back,  and  began  —  with  the 
stammer  which  always  came  at  first  when  he  was 
much  moved,  but  which  fixed  every  one's  attention 
at  once  —  "I  am  a  Church  of  England  parson  "  — 
a  long  pause  —  "and  a  Chartist;  "  and  then  he 
went  on  to  explain  how  far  he  thought  them  right 
in  their  claim  for  a  reform  of  Parliament;  how 
deeply  he  sympathized  with  their  sense  of  the  in- 
justice of  the  law  as  it  affected  them ;  how  ready  he 
was  to  help  in  all  ways  to  get  these  things  set  right ; 
and  then  to  denounce  their  methods,  in  very  much 
the  same  terms  as  I  have  already  quoted  from  his 
letters  to  the  Chartists.  Probably  no  one  who  was 
present  ever  heard  a  speech  which  told  more  at  the 
time.  I  had  a  singular  proof  that  the  effect  did  not 
pass  away.  The  most  violent  speaker  on  that  oc- 
casion was  one  of  the  staff  of  the  leading  Chartist 
newspaper.  I  lost  sight  of  him  entirely  for  more 
than  twenty  years,  and  saw  him  again,  a  little  gray 
shrivelled  man,  by  Kingsley's  side,  at  the  grave  of 
Mr.  Maurice,  in  the  cemetery  at  Hampstead. 

The  experience  of  this  meeting  encouraged  its 
promoters  to  continue  the  series,  which  they  did 
with  a  success  which  surprised  no  one  more  than 
themselves.  Kingsley's  opinion  of  them  may  be 
gathered  from  the  following  extract  from  a  letter 
to  his  wife : 

"June  4,  1848,  Evening,  —  A  few  words  before 
bed.  I  have  just  come  home  from  the  meeting. 
No  one  spoke  but  working  men,  gentlemen  I  should 
call  them,  in  every  sense  of  the  term.  Even  /  was 
perfectly  astonished  by  the  courtesy,  the  reverence 
to  Maurice,  who  sat  there  like  an  Apollo,  their  elo- 


Prefatory  Memoir  15 

quence,  the  brilliant,  nervous,  well-chosen  language, 
the  deep  simple  earnestness,  the  Tightness  and  mod- 
eration of  their  thoughts.  And  these  are  the  Chart- 
ists,  these  are  the  men  who  are  called  fools  and 
knaves — who  are  refused  the  rights  which  are 
bestowed  on  every  profligate  fop.  ...  It  is  God's 
cause,  fear  not  He  will  be  with  us,  and  if  He  is 
with  us,  who  shall  be  against  us  ?  " 

But  while  he  was  rapidly  winning  the  confidence 
of  the  working  classes,  he  was  raising  up  a  host  of 
more  or  less  hostile  critics  in  other  quarters  by  his 
writings  in  "  Politics  for  the  People,"  which  journal 
was  in  the  midst  of  its  brief  and  stormy  career.  At 
the  end  of  June,  1848,  he  writes  to  Mr.  Ludlow,  one 
of  the  editors  — 

"  I  fear  my  utterances  have  had  a  great  deal  to 
do  with  the  *  Politics'  *  unpopularity.  I  have  got 
worse  handled  than  any  of  you  by  poor  and  rich. 
There  is  one  comfort,  that  length  of  ears  is  in  the 
donkey  species  always  compensated  by  toughness 
of  hide.  But  it  is  a  pleasing  prospect  for  me  (if 
you  knew  all  that  has  been  said  and  written  about 
Parson  Lot),  when  I  look  forward  and  know  that 
my  future  explosions  are  likely  to  become  more 
and  more  obnoxious  to  the  old  gentlemen,  who 
stuff  their  ears  with  cotton,  and  then  swear  the 
children  are  not  screaming." 

"  Politics  for  the  People  "  was  discontinued  for 
want  of  funds;  but  its  supporters,  including  all 
those  who  were  working  under  Mr.  Maurice  — 
who,  however  much  they  might  differ  in  opinions, 
were  of  one  mind  as  to  the  danger  of  the  time,  and 
the  duty  of  every  man  to  do  his  utmost  to  meet 
that  danger  —  were  bent  upon  making  another 
effort.     In  the  autumn,  Mr.  Ludlow,  and  others  of 


1 6  Prefatory  Memoir 

their  number  who  spent  the  vacation  abroad,  came 
back  with  accounts  of  the  efforts  at  association 
which  were  being  made  by  the  workpeople  of 
Paris. 

The  question  of  starting  such  associations  in 
England  as  the  best  means  of  fighting  the  slop 
system  —  which  the  "  Chronicle  "  was  showing  to 
lie  at  the  root  of  the  misery  and  distress  which 
bred  Chartists  —  was  anxiously  debated.  It  was 
at  last  resolved  to  make  the  effort,  and  to  identify 
the  new  journal  with  the  cause  of  Association,  and 
to  publish  a  set  of  tracts  in  connection  with  it,  of 
which  Kingsley  undertook  to  write  the  first,  "  Cheap 
Clothes  and  Nasty." 

So  "The  Christian  Socialist"  was  started,  with 
Mr.  Ludlow  for  editor,  the  tracts  on  Christian 
Socialism  begun  under  Mr.  Maurice's  supervision, 
and  the  society  for  promoting  working-men's  asso- 
ciations was  formed  out  of  the  body  of  men  who 
were  already  working  with  Mr.  Maurice.  The 
great  majority  of  these  joined,  though  the  name 
was  too  much  for  others.  The  question  of  taking 
it  had  been  much  considered,  and  it  was  decided, 
on  the  whole,  to  be  best  to  do  so  boldly,  even 
though  it  might  cost  valuable  allies.  Kingsley  was 
of  course  consulted  on  every  point,  though  living 
now  almost  entirely  at  Eversley,  and  his  views  as 
to  the  proper  policy  to  be  pursued  may  be  gathered 
best  from  the  following  extracts  from  letters  of  his 
to  Mr.  Ludlow  — 

"  We  must  touch  the  workman  at  all  his  points 
of  interest.  First  and  foremost  at  association  — 
but  also  at  political  rights,  as  grounded  both  on  the 
Christian  ideal  of  the  Church,  and  on  the  historic 
facts  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race.    Then  national  edu- 


Prefatory  Memoir  17 

cation,  sanitary  and  dwelling-house  reform,  the  free 
sale  of  land,  and  corresponding  reform  of  the  land 
laws,  moral  improvement  of  the  family  relation, 
pubHc  places  of  recreation  (on  which  point  I  am 
very  earnest),  and  I  think  a  set  of  hints  from  his- 
tory, and  sayings  of  great  men,  of  which  last  I 
have  been  picking  up  from  Plato,  Demosthenes, 
etc." 

1849.  —  "This  is  a  puling,  quill-driving,  soft- 
handed  age  —  among  our  own  rank,  I  mean. 
Cowardice  is  called  meekness ;  to  temporize  is  to 
be  charitable  and  reverent;  to  speak  truth,  and 
shame  the  devil,  is  to  offend  weak  brethren,  who, 
somehow  or  other,  never  complain  of  their  weak 
consciences  till  you  hit  them  hard.  And  yet,  my 
dear  fellow,  I  still  remain  of  my  old  mind  —  that  it 
is  better  to  say  too  much  than  too  little,  and  more 
merciful  to  knock  a  man  down  with  a  pickaxe 
than  to  prick  him  to  death  with  pins.  The  world 
says.  No.  It  hates  anything  demonstrative,  or  vio- 
lent (except  on  its  own  side),  or  unrefined." 

1849.  —  "The  question  of  property  is  one  of 
these  cases.  We  must  face  it  in  this  age  —  simply 
because  it  faces  us."  —  "I  want  to  commit  myself 
—  I  want  to  make  others  commit  themselves.  No 
man  can  fight  the  devil  with  a  long  ladle,  however 
pleasant  it  may  be  to  eat  with  him  with  one.  A 
man  never  fishes  well  in  the  morning  till  he  has 
tumbled  into  the  water." 

And  the  counsels  of  Parson  Lot  had  undoubtedly 
great  weight  in  giving  an  aggressive  tone  both  to 
the  paper  and  the  society.  But  if  he  was  largely 
responsible  for  the  fighting  temper  of  the  early 
movement,  he,  at  any  rate,  never  shirked  his  share 
of  the  fighting.     His  name  was  the  butt  at  which 

Vol.  Ill— 2 


1 8  Prefatory  Memoir 

all  shafts  were  aimed.  As  Lot  "  seemed  like  one 
that  mocked  to  his  sons-in-law,"  so  seemed  the 
Parson  to  the  most  opposite  sections  of  the  British 
nation.  As  a  friend  wrote  of  him  at  the  time,  he 
"  had  at  any  rate  escaped  the  curse  of  the  false 
prophets,  '  Woe  unto  you  when  all  men  shall  speak 
well  of  you.'  "  Many  of  the  attacks  and  criticisms 
were  no  doubt  aimed  not  so  much  at  him  person- 
ally as  at  the  body  of  men  with  whom,  and  for 
whom,  he  was  working;  but  as  he  was  (except 
Mr.  Maurice)  the  only  one  whose  name  was  known, 
he  got  the  lion's  share  of  all  the  abuse.  The 
storm  broke  on  him  from  all  points  of  the  compass 
at  once.  An  old  friend  and  fellow-contributor  to 
"  Politics  for  the  People "  led  the  Conservative 
attack,  accusing  him  of  unsettling  the  minds  of  the 
poor,  making  them  discontented,  etc.  Some  of 
the  foremost  Chartists  wrote  virulently  against  him 
for  "  attempting  to  justify  the  God  of  the  Old 
Testament,"  who,  they  maintained,  was  unjust 
and  cruel,  and,  at  any  rate,  not  the  God  "  of  the 
people."  The  political  economists  fell  on  him  for 
his  anti-Malthusian  belief,  that  the  undeveloped  fer- 
tility of  the  earth  need  not  be  overtaken  by  popu- 
lation within  any  time  which  it  concerned  us  to 
think  about.  The  quarterlies  joined  in  the  attack 
on  his  economic  heresies.  The  "Daily  News" 
opened  a  cross  fire  on  him  from  the  common-sense 
Liberal  battery,  denouncing  the  "  revolutionary 
nonsense,  which  is  termed  Christian  Socialisms ;  " 
and,  after  some  balancing,  the  "  Guardian,"  repre- 
senting in  the  press  the  side  of  the  Church  to 
which  he  leant,  turned  upon  him  in  a  very  cruel 
article  on  the  republication  of  "  Yeast  "  (originally 
written  for  "  Fraser's   Magazine " ),   and   accused 


Prefatory  Memoir  19 

him  of  teaching  heresy  in  doctrine,  and  in  morals 
"  that  a  certain  amount  of  youthful  profligacy  does 
no  real  permanent  harm  to  the  character,  perhaps 
strengthens  it  for  a  useful  and  religious  life." 

In  this  one  instance  Parson  Lot  fairly  lost  his 
temper,  and  answered,  "  as  was  answered  to  the 
Jesuit  of  old  —  mentiris  impudentissime."  With 
the  rest  he  seemed  to  enjoy  the  conflict  and  "  kept 
the  ring,"  like  a  candidate  for  the  wrestling  cham- 
pionship in  his  own  county  of  Devon  against  all 
comers,  one  down  another  come  on. 

The  fact  is,  that  Charles  Kingsley  was  born  a 
fighting  man,  and  believed  in  bold  attack.  "No 
human  power  ever  beat  back  a  resolute  forlorn 
hope,"  he  used  to  say;  "to  be  got  rid  of,  they 
must  be  blown  back  with  grape  and  canister," 
because  the  attacking  party  have  all  the  universe 
behind  them,  the  defence  only  that  small  part 
which  is  shut  up  in  their  walls.  And  he  felt  most 
strongly  at  this  time  that  hard  fighting  was  needed. 
"It  is  a  pity,"  he  writes  to  Mr.  Ludlow,  "  that 
telling  people  what 's  right,  won't  make  them  do 
it ;  but  not  a  new  fact,  though  that  ass  the  world 
has  quite  forgotten  it;  and  assures  you  that  dear, 
sweet  '  incompris '  mankind  only  wants  to  be  told 
the  way  to  the  millennium  to  walk  willingly  into 
it  —  which  is  a  lie.  If  you  want  to  get  mankind, 
if  not  to  heaven,  at  least  out  of  hell,  kick  them 
out."  And  again,  a  little  later  on,  in  urging  the 
policy  which  the  "  Christian  Socialist "  should  still 
follow  — 

185 1.  —  "It  seems  to  me  that  in  such  a  time  as 
this  the  only  way  to  fight  against  the  devil  is  to 
attack  him.  He  has  got  it  too  much  his  own 
way  to  meddle  with  us  if  we  don't  meddle  with 


20  Prefatory  Memoir 

him.  But  the  very  devil  has  feelings,  and  if  you 
prick  him  will  roar  .  .  .  whereby  you,  at  all  events, 
gain  the  not-every-day-of-the- week-to-be-attained 
benefit  of  finding  out  where  he  is.  Unless,  indeed, 
as  I  suspect,  the  old  rascal  plays  ventriloquist  (as 
big  grasshoppers  do  when  you  chase  them),  and 
puts  you  on  a  wrong  scent,  by  crying  '  Fire  !  *  out 
of  saints'  windows.  Still,  the  odds  are  if  you  prick 
lustily  enough,  you  make  him  roar  unawares." 

The  memorials  of  his  many  controversies  lie 
about  in  the  periodicals  of  that  time,  and  any  one 
who  cares  to  hunt  them  up  will  be  well  repaid,  and 
struck  with  the  vigor  of  the  defence,  and  still 
more  with  the  complete  change  in  public  opinion, 
which  has  brought  the  England  of  to-day  clean 
round  to  the  side  of  Parson  Lot.  The  most  com- 
plete perhaps  of  his  fugitive  pieces  of  this  kind 
is  the  pamphlet,  "Who  are  the  friends  of  Order?" 
published  by  J.  W.  Parker  and  Son,  in  answer  to 
a  very  fair  and  moderate  article  in  "  Eraser's  Maga- 
zine." The  Parson  there  points  out  how  he  and 
his  friends  were  "  cursed  by  demagogues  as  aristo- 
crats, and  by  tories  as  democrats,  when  in  reality 
they  were  neither."  And  urges  that  the  very  fact 
of  the  Continent  being  overrun  with  communist 
fanatics  is  the  best  argument  for  preaching  associa- 
tion here. 

But  though  he  faced  his  adversaries  bravely,  it 
must  not  be  inferred  that  he  did  not  feel  the 
attacks  and  misrepresentations  very  keenly.  In 
many  respects,  though  housed  in  a  strong  and 
vigorous  body,  his  spirit  was  an  exceedingly  tender 
and  sensitive  one.  I  have  often  thought  that  at 
this  time  his  very  sensitiveness  drove  him  to  say 
things  more   broadly  and   incisively,  because   he 


Prefatory  Memoir  21 

was  speaking  as  it  were  somewhat  against  tiie 
grain,  and  knew  that  the  line  he  was  taking  would 
be  misunderstood,  and  would  displease  and  alarm 
those  with  whom  he  had  most  sympathy.  For  he 
was  by  nature  and  education  an  aristocrat  in  the 
best  sense  of  the  word,  believed  that  a  landed 
aristocracy  was  a  blessing  to  the  country,  and  that 
no  country  would  gain  the  highest  liberty  without 
such  a  class,  holding  its  own  position  firmly,  but 
in  sympathy  with  the  people.  He  liked  their 
habits  and  ways,  and  keenly  enjoyed  their  society. 
Again,  he  was  full  of  reverence  for  science  and 
scientific  men,  and  specially  for  political  economy 
and  economists,  and  desired  eagerly  to  stand  well 
with  them.  And  it  was  a  most  bitter  trial  to  him 
to  find  himself  not  only  in  sharp  antagonism  with 
traders  and  employers  of  labor,  which  he  looked 
for,  but  with  these  classes  also. 

On  the  other  hand,  many  of  the  views  and  habits 
of  those  with  whom  he  found  himself  associated 
were  very  distasteful  to  him.  In  a  new  social 
movement,  such  as  that  of  association  as  it  took 
shape  in  1849-50,  there  is  certain  to  be  great  at- 
traction for  restless  and  eccentric  persons,  and  in 
point  of  fact  many  such  joined  it.  The  beard  move- 
ment was  then  in  its  infancy,  and  any  man  except  a 
dragoon  who  wore  hair  on  his  face  was  regarded  as 
a  dangerous  character,  with  whom  it  was  compro- 
mising to  be  seen  in  any  public  place  —  a  person 
in  sympathy  with  sansculottes,  and  who  would  dis- 
pense with  trousers  but  for  his  fear  of  the  police. 
Now,  whenever  Kingsley  attended  a  meeting  of  the 
promoters  of  association  in  London,  he  was  sure  to 
find  himself  in  the  midst  of  bearded  men,  vegeta- 
rians, and  other  eccentric  persons,  and  the  contact 


22  Prefatory  Memoir 

was  very  grievous  to  him.  "  As  if  we  shall  not 
be  abused  enough,"  he  used  to  say,  "  for  what  we 
must  say  and  do  without  being  saddled  with  mis- 
chievous nonsense  of  this  kind."  To  less  sensitive 
men  the  effect  of  eccentricity  upon  him  was  almost 
comic,  as  when  on  one  occasion  he  was  quite  upset 
and  silenced  by  the  appearance  of  a  bearded  mem- 
ber of  Council  at  an  important  deputation  in  a 
straw  hat  and  blue  plush  gloves.  He  did  not 
recover  from  the  depression  produced  by  those 
gloves  for  days.  Many  of  the  workmen,  too,  who 
were  most  prominent  in  the  Associations  were  al- 
most as  little  to  his  mind  —  windy  inflated  kind  of 
persons,  with  a  lot  of  fine  phrases  in  their  mouths 
which  they  did  not  know  the  meaning  of 

But  in  spite  of  all  that  was  distasteful  to  him  in 
some  of  its  surroundings,  the  co-operative  move- 
ment (as  it  is  now  called)  entirely  approved  itself 
to  his  conscience  and  judgment,  and  mastered  him 
so  that  he  was  ready  to  risk  whatever  had  to  be 
risked  in  fighting  its  battle.  Often  in  those  days, 
seeing  how  loath  Charles  Kingsley  was  to  take  in 
hand  much  of  the  work  which  Parson  Lot  had  to 
do,  and  how  fearlessly  and  thoroughly  he  did  it 
after  all,  one  was  reminded  of  the  old  Jewish 
prophets,  such  as  Amos  the  herdsman  of  Tekoa  — 
"  I  was  no  prophet,  neither  was  I  a  prophet's  son, 
but  I  was  an  herdsman  and  a  gatherer  of  sycamore 
fruit :  and  the  Lord  took  me  as  I  followed  the  flock, 
and  said  unto  me,  Go  prophesy  unto  my  people 
Israel." 

The  following  short  extracts  from  his  correspond- 
ence with  Mr.  Ludlow,  as  to  the  conduct  of  the 
"  Christian  Socialist,"  and  his  own  contributions  to 
it,  may  perhaps  serve  to  show  how  his  mind  was 
working  at  this  time : 


Prefatory  Memoir  23 

Sept.,  1850. — "  I  cannot  abide  the  notion  of  Branch 
Churches  or  Free  (sect)  Churches,  and  unless  my 
whole  train  of  thought  alters,  I  will  resist  the  temp- 
tation as  coming  from  the  devil.  Where  I  am  I  am 
doing  God's  work,  and  when  the  Church  is  ripe  for 
more,  the  Head  of  the  Church  will  put  the  means 
our  way.  You  seem  to  fancy  that  we  may  have  a 
Deus  quidam  Deceptor  owtv  us  after  all.  If  I  did  I  'd 
go  and  blow  my  dirty  brains  out  and  be  rid  of  the 
whole  thing  at  once.  I  would  indeed.  If  God, 
when  people  ask  Him  to  teach  and  guide  them, 
does  not ;  if  when  they  confess  themselves  rogues 
and  fools  to  Him,  and  beg  Him  to  make  them 
honest  and  wise,  He  does  not,  but  darkens  them, 
and  deludes  them  into  bogs  and  pitfalls,  is  he  a 
Father?     You  fall  back  into  Judaism,  friend." 

Dec,  1850.  —  "Jeremiah  is  my  favorite  book 
now.  It  has  taught  me  more  than  tongue  can  tell. 
But  I  am  much  disheartened,  and  am  minded  to 
speak  no  more  words  in  this  name  (Parson  Lot) ; 
and  yet  all  these  bullyings  teach  one,  correct  one, 
warn  one  —  show  one  that  God  is  not  leaving  one 
to  go  one's  own  way.  '  Christ  reigns,'  quoth 
Luther." 

It  was  at  this  time,  in  the  winter  of  1850,  that 
"Alton  Locke  "  was  published.  He  had  been  en- 
gaged on  it  for  more  than  a  year,  working  at  it  in 
the  midst  of  all  his  controversies.  The  following 
extracts  from  his  correspondence  with  Mr.  Ludlow 
will  tell  readers  more  about  it  than  any  criticism, 
if  they  have  at  all  realized  the  time  at  which  it  was 
written,  or  his  peculiar  work  in  that  time. 

February,  1849.  —  "I  have  hopes  from  the  book 
I  am  writing,  which  has  revealed  itself  to  me  so 
rapidly  and  methodically  that  I  feel  it  comes  down 


24  Prefatory  Memoir 

from  above,  and  that  only  my  folly  can  spoil  it, 
which  I  pray  against  daily." 

1849.  — "I  think  the  notion  a  good  one  (refer- 
ring to  other  work  for  the  paper  which  he  had  been 
asked  to  do),  but  I  feel  no  inspiration  at  all  that 
way;  and  I  dread  being  tempted  to  more  and 
more  bitterness,  harsh  judgment,  and  evil  speak- 
ing. I  dread  it.  I  am  afraid  sometimes  I  shall 
end  in  universal  snarling.  Besides,  my  whole  time 
is  taken  up  with  my  book,  and  that  I  do  feel  in- 
spired to  write.  But  there  is  something  else  which 
weighs  awfully  on  my  mind — (the  first  number 
of  Cooper's  Journal,  which  he  sent  me  the  other 
day).  Here  is  a  man  of  immense  influence  openly 
preaching  Strausseanism  to  the  workmen,  and  in  a 
fair,  honest,  manly  way  which  must  tell.  Who  will 
answer  him?  Who  will  answer  Strauss?^  Who 
will  denounce  him  as  a  vile  aristocrat,  robbing  the 
poor  man  of  his  Saviour  —  of  the  ground  of  all 
democracy,  all  freedom,  all  association  —  of  the 
Charter  itself?  Oh,  si  mihi  centum  voces  et  ferrea 
lingua  !    Think  about  that!' 

January,  1850.  —  "A  thousand  thanks  for  your 
letter,  though  it  only  shows  me  what  I  have  long 
suspected,  that  I  know  hardly  enough  yet  to  make 
the  book  what  it  should  be.  As  you  have  made  a 
hole,  you  must  help  to  fill  it.  Can  you  send  me 
any  publication  which  would  give  me  a  good 
notion  of  the  Independents'  view  of  politics,  also 
one  which  would  give  a  good  notion  of  the  Fox- 
Emerson-Strauss   school   of  Blague-Unitarianism, 

*  He  did  the  work  himself.  After  many  interviews,  and  a 
long  correspondence  with  him,  Thomas  Cooper  changed  his 
views,  and  has  been  lecturing  and  preaching  for  many  years  as 
a  Christian. 


Prefatory  Memoir  25 

which  is  superseding  dissent  just  now?  It  was  with 
the  ideal  of  Calvinism,  and  its  ultimate  bearing  on 
the  people's  cause,  that  I  wished  to  deal.  I  be- 
lieve that  there  must  be  internecine  war  between 
the  people's  church  —  /.  e.  the  future  development 
of  Catholic  Christianity,  and  Calvinism  even  in  its 
mildest  form,  whether  in  the  Establishment  or  out 
of  it  —  and  I  have  counted  the  cost  and  will  give 
every  party  its  slap  in  their  turn.  But  I  will  alter, 
as  far  as  I  can,  all  you  dislike." 

August,  1850.  —  "How  do  you  know,  dearest 
man,  that  I  was  not  right  in  making  the  Alton  of 
the  second  volume  different  from  the  first?  In 
showing  the  individuality  of  the  man  swamped  and 
warped  by  the  routine  of  misery  and  discontent? 
How  do  you  know  that  the  historic  and  human 
interest  of  the  book  was  not  intended  to  end  with 
Mackay's  death,  in  whom  old  radicalism  dies,  '  not 
having  received  the  promises,'  to  make  room  for  the 
radicalism  of  the  future?  How  do  you  know  that 
the  book  from  that  point  was  not  intended  to  take 
a  mythic  and  prophetic  form,  that  those  dreams 
come  in  for  the  very  purpose  of  taking  the  story 
off  the  ground  of  the  actual  into  the  deeper  and 
wider  one  of  the  ideal,  and  that  they  do  actually 
do  what  they  were  intended  to  do?  How  do  you 
know  that  my  idea  of  carrying  out  Eleanor's  ser- 
mons in  practice  were  just  what  I  could  not  —  and 
if  I  could,  dared  not  give?  that  all  that  I  could  do 
was  to  leave  them  as  seed,  to  grow  by  itself  in 
many  forms,  in  many  minds,  instead  of  embody- 
ing them  in  some  action  which  would  have  been 
both  as  narrow  as  my  own  idiosyncrasy,  gain  the 
reproach  of  insanity,  and  be  simply  answered  by 
— '  If  such   things   have   been   done,   where   are 


26  Prefatory  Memoir 

they  ?  *  and  lastly,  how  do  you  know  that  I  had 
not  a  special  meaning  in  choosing  a  civilized  fine 
lady  as  my  missionary,  one  of  a  class  which,  as  it 
does  exist,  God  must  have  something  for  it  to 
do,  and,  as  it  seems,  plenty  to  do,  from  the  fact 
that  a  few  gentlemen  whom  I  could  mention,  not 
to  speak  of  Fowell  Buxtons,  Howards,  Ashleys, 
etc.,  have  done  more  for  the  people  in  one  year 
than  they  have  done  for  themselves  in  fifty  ?  If  I 
had  made  her  an  organizer,  as  well  as  a  preacher, 
your  complaint  might  have  been  just.  My  dear 
man,  the  artist  is  a  law  unto  himself —  or  rather 
God  is  a  law  to  him,  when  he  prays,  as  I  have 
earnestly  day  after  day  about  this  book  —  to  be 
taught  how  to  say  the  right  thing  in  the  right  way 
—  and  I  assure  you  I  did  not  get  tired  of  my 
work,  but  labored  as  earnestly  at  the  end  as  I 
did  at  the  beginning.  The  rest  of  your  criticism, 
especially  about  the  interpenetration  of  doctrine 
and  action,  is  most  true,  and  shall  be  attended 
to.  —  Your  brother,  C.  K." 

9 

The  next  letter,  on  the  same  topic,  in  answer  to 
criticisms  on  "  Alton  Locke,"  is  addressed  to  a 
brother  clergyman  — 

"  EvERSLEY,  January  13,  1851. 

"  Rev.  dear  Sir  —  I  will  answer  your  most  in- 
teresting letter  as  shortly  as  I  can,  and  if  possible 
in  the  same  spirit  of  honesty  as  that  in  which  you 
have  written  to  me. 

"  First,  I  do  not  think  the  cry  *  Get  on '  to  be 
anything  but  a  devil's  cry.  The  moral  of  my 
book  is  that  the  working  man  who  tries  to  get  on, 
to  desert  his  class  and  rise  above  it,  enters  into  a 


Prefatory  Memoir  27 

lie,  and  leaves  God's  path  for  his  own  —  with 
consequences. 

"Second,  I  believe  that  a  man  might  be,  as  a 
tailor  or  a  costermonger,  every  inch  of  him  a  saint, 
a  scholar,  and  a  gentleman,  for  I  have  seen  some 
few  such  already.  I  beheve  hundreds  of  thou- 
sands more  would  be  so,  if  their  businesses  were 
put  on  a  Christian  footing,  and  themselves  given 
by  education,  sanitary  reforms,  etc.,  the  means  of 
developing  their  own  latent  capabilities  —  I  think 
the  cry,  '  Rise  in  Life,'  has  been  excited  by  the 
very  increasing  impossibility  of  being  anything  but 
brutes  while  they  struggle  below.  I  know  well  all 
that  is  doing  in  the  way  of  education,  etc.,  but  I 
do  assert  that  the  disease  of  degradation  has  been 
for  the  last  forty  years  increasing  faster  than  the 
remedy.  And  I  believe,  from  experience,  that 
when  you  put  workmen  into  human  dwellings, 
and  give  them  a  Christian  education,  so  far  from 
wishing  discontentedly  to  rise  out  of  their  class, 
or  to  level  others  to  it,  exactly  the  opposite  takes 
place.  They  become  sensible  of  the  dignity  of 
work,  and  they  begin  to  see  their  labor  as  a  true 
calling  in  God's  Church,  now  that  it  is  cleared 
from  the  accidentia  which  made  it  look,  in  their 
eyes,  only  a  soulless  drudgery  in  a  devil's  work- 
shop of  a    World. 

"  Third,  From  the  advertisement  of  an  '  English 
Republic '  you  send,  I  can  guess  who  will  be  the 
writers  in  it,  etc.  etc.,  being  behind  the  scenes.  It 
will  come  to  naught.  Everything  of  this  kind  is 
coming  to  naught  now.  The  workmen  are  tired 
of  idols,  ready  and  yearning  for  the  Church  and 
the  Gospel,  and  such  men  as  your  friend  may 
laugh  at  Julian  Harney,  Feargus  O'Connor,    and 


28  Prefatory  Memoir 

the  rest  of  that  smoke  of  the  pit.  Only  we 
live  in  a  great  crisis,  and  the  Lord  requires 
great  things  of  us.  The  fields  are  white  to 
harvest.  Pray  ye  therefore  the  Lord  of  the  har- 
vest, that  he  may  send  forth  laborers  into  His 
harvest. 

"  Fourth,  As  to  the  capacities  of  working  men, 
I  am  afraid  that  your  excellent  friend  will  find  that 
he  has  only  the  refuse  of  working  intellects  to 
form  his  induction  on.  The  devil  has  got  the  best 
long  ago.  By  the  neglect  of  the  Church,  by  her 
dealing  (like  the  Popish  Church  and  all  weak 
churches)  only  with  women,  children,  and  beggars, 
the  cream  and  pith  of  working  intellect  is  almost 
exclusively  self-educated,  and,  therefore,  alas  !  in- 
fidel. If  he  goes  on  as  he  is  doing,  lecturing  on 
history,  poetry,  science,  and  all  the  things  which 
the  workmen   crave  for,  and   can   only  get   from 

such  men  as  H ,  Thomas  Cooper,  etc.,  mixed 

up  with  Straussism  and  infidelity,  he  will  find  that 
he  will  draw  back  to  his  Lord's  fold,  and  to  his 
lecture-room,  slowly,  but  surely,  men,  whose 
powers  will  astonish  him,  as  they  have  astonished 
me. 

"  Fifth,  The  workmen  whose  quarrels  you  men- 
tion are  not  Christians,  or  socialists  either.  They 
are  of  all  creeds  and  none.  We  are  teaching  them 
to  become  Christians  by  teaching  them  gradually 
that  true  socialism,  true  liberty,  brotherhood,  and 
true  equality  (not  the  carnal  dead  level  equality 
of  the  Communist,  but  the  spiritual  equality  of 
the  church  idea,  which  gives  every  man  an  equal 
chance  of  developing  and  using  God's  gifts,  and 
rewards  every  man  according  to  his  work,  without 
respect  of  persons)  is  only  to  be  found  in  loyalty 


Prefatory  Memoir  29 

and  obedience  to  Christ.  They  do  quarrel,  but 
if  you  knew  how  they  used  to  quarrel  before  as- 
sociation, the  improvement  since  would  astonish 
you.  And  the  French  associations  do  not  quarrel 
at  all.  I  can  send  you  a  pamphlet  on  them,  if 
you  wish,  written  by  an  eyewitness,  a  friend  of 
mine. 

"  Sixth,  If  your  friend  wishes  to  see  what  can  be 
made  of  workmen's  brains,  let  him,  in  God's  name, 
go  down  to  Harrow  Weald,  and  there  see  Mr. 
Monro  —  see  what  he  has  done  with  his  own 
national  school  boys.  I  have  his  opinion  as  to 
the  capabilities  of  those  minds,  which  we,  alas ! 
now  so  sadly  neglect.  I  only  ask  him  to  go  and 
ask  of  that  man  the  question  which  you  have 
asked  of  me. 

**  Seventh,  May  I,  in  reference  to  myself  and 
certain  attacks  on  me,  say,  with  all  humility,  that 
I  do  not  speak  from  hearsay  now,  as  has  been 
asserted,  from  second-hand  picking  and  stealing 
out  of  those  *  Reports  on  Labor  and  the  Poor,' 
in  the  '  Morning  Chronicle,'  which  are  now  being 
reprinted  in  a  separate  form,  and  which  I  entreat 
you  to  read  if  you  wish  to  get  a  clear  view  of  the 
real  state  of  the  working  classes. 

"  From  my  cradle,  as  the  son  of  an  active 
clergyman,  I  have  been  brought  up  in  the  most 
familiar  intercourse  with  the  poor  in  town  and 
country.  My  mother,  a  second  Mrs.  Fry,  in  spirit 
and  act.  For  fourteen  years  my  father  has  been 
the  rector  of  a  very  large  metropolitan  parish  — 
and  I  speak  what  I  know,  and  testify  that  which 
I  have  seen.  With  earnest  prayer,  in  fear  and 
trembling,  I  wrote  my  book,  and  I  trust  in  Him 
to   whom   I  prayed  that  He  has  not  left  me   to 


30  Prefatory  Memoir 

my  own  prejudices  or  idols  on  any  important 
point  relating  to  the  state  of  the  possibilities  of 
the  poor  for  whom  He  died.  Any  use  which  you 
choose  you  can  make  of  this  letter.  If  it  should 
seem  worth  your  while  to  honor  me  with  any 
further  communications,  I  shall  esteem  them  a 
delight,  and  the  careful  consideration  of  them  a 
duty.  —  Believe  me,  Rev.  and  dear  sir,  your  faithful 
and  obedient  servant,  C.  KiNGSLEY." 

By  this  time  the  society  for  promoting  associa- 
tions was  thoroughly  organized,  and  consisted  of 
a  council  of  promoters,  of  which  Kingsley  was  a 
member,  and  a  central  board,  on  which  the  mana- 
gers of  the  associations  and  a  delegate  from  each 
of  them  sat.  The  council  had  published  a  number 
of  tracts,  beginning  with  "  Cheap  Clothes  and 
Nasty,"  which  had  attracted  the  attention  of  many 
persons,  including  several  of  the  London  clergy, 
who  connected  themselves  more  or  less  closely 
with  the  movement.  Mr.  Maurice,  Kingsley,  Han- 
sard, and  others  of  these,  were  often  asked  to 
preach  on  social  questions,  and  when  in  185 1,  on 
the  opening  of  the  Great  Exhibition,  immense 
crowds  of  strangers  were  drawn  to  London,  they 
were  specially  in  request.  For  many  London 
incumbents  threw  open  their  churches,  and  organ- 
ized series  of  lectures,  specially  bearing  on  the 
great  topic  of  the  day.  It  was  now  that  the  inci- 
dent happened  which  once  more  brought  upon 
Kingsley  the  charge  of  being  a  revolutionist,  and 
which  gave  him  more  pain  than  all  other  attacks 
put  together.  One  of  the  incumbents  before  re- 
ferred to  begged  Mr.  Maurice  to  take  part  in  his 
course  of  lectures,  and  to  ask  Kingsley  to  do  so ; 


Prefatory  Memoir  31 

assuring  Mr.  Maurice  that  he  "  had  been  reading 
Kingsley's  works  with  the  greatest  interest,  and 
earnestly  desired  to  secure  him  as  one  of  his 
lecturers."  "  I  promised  to  mention  this  request 
to  him,"  Mr.  Maurice  says,  "  though  I  knew  he 
rarely  came  to  London,  and  seldom  preached 
except  in  his  own  parish.  He  agreed,  though 
at  some  inconvenience,  that  he  would  preach  a 
sermon  on  the  '  Message  of  the  Church  to  the 
Laboring  Man.'  I  suggested  the  subject  to  him. 
The  incumbent  intimated  the  most  cordial  approval 
of  it.  He  had  asked  us,  not  only  with  a  previous 
knowledge  of  our  published  writings,  but  expressly 
because  he  had  that  knowledge.  I  pledge  you  my 
word  that  no  questions  were  asked  as  to  what  we 
were  going  to  say,  and  no  guarantees  given.  Mr. 
Kingsley  took  precisely  that  view  of  the  message 
of  the  Church  to  laboring  men  which  every 
reader  of  his  books  would  have  expected  him  to 
take." 

Kingsley  took  his  text  from  Luke  iv.  verses  16 
to  21  :  "The  spirit  of  the  Lord  is  upon  me  because 
He  hath  anointed  me  to  preach  the  gospel  to  the 
poor,"  etc.  What  then  was  that  gospel?  Kings- 
ley  asks,  and  goes  on  —  "I  assert  that  the  business 
for  which  God  sends  a  Christian  priest  in  a  Chris- 
tian nation  is,  to  preach  freedom,  equality,  and 
brotherhood  in  the  fullest,  deepest,  widest  meaning 
of  those  three  great  words ;  that  in  as  far  as  he  so 
does,  he  is  a  true  priest,  doing  his  Lord's  work 
with  his  Lord's  blessing  on  him ;  that  in  as  far  as 
he  does  not  he  is  no  priest  at  all,  but  a  traitor  to 
God  and  man ; "  and  again,  "  I  say  that  these 
words  express  the  very  pith  and  marrow  of  a 
priest's  business ;  I  say  that  they  preach  freedom, 


32  Prefatory  Memoir 

equality,  and  brotherhood  to  rich  and  poor  for 
ever  and  ever."  Then  he  goes  on  to  warn  his 
hearers  how  there  is  always  a  counterfeit  in  this 
world  of  the  noblest  message  and  teaching. 

Thus  there  are  two  freedoms  —  the  false,  where 
a  man  is  free  to  do  what  he  likes ;  the  true,  where 
a  man  is  free  to  do  what  he  ought. 

Two  equalities  —  the  false,  which  reduces  all  in- 
tellects and  all  characters  to  a  dead  level,  and 
gives  the  same  power  to  the  bad  as  to  the  good, 
to  the  wise  as  to  the  foolish,  ending  thus  in  prac- 
tice in  the  grossest  inequality;  the  true,  wherein 
each  man  has  equal  power  to  educate  and  use 
whatever  faculties  or  talents  God  has  given  him, 
be  they  less  or  more.  This  is  the  divine  equality, 
which  the  Church  proclaims,  and  nothing  else 
proclaims  as  she  does. 

Two  brotherhoods  —  the  false,  where  a  man 
chooses  who  shall  be  his  brothers,  and  whom  he 
will  treat  as  such ;  the  true,  in  which  a  man  be- 
lieves that  all  are  his  brothers,  not  by  the  will  of 
the  flesh,  or  the  will  of  man,  but  by  the  will  of  God, 
whose  children  they  all  are  alike,  —  the  Church 
has  three  special  possessions  and  treasures,  —  the 
Bible,  which  proclaims  man's  freedom,  Baptism  his 
equality,  the  Lord's  Supper  his  brotherhood. 

At  the  end  of  this  sermon  (which  would  scarcely 
cause  surprise  to-day  if  preached  by  the  Archbishop 
of  Canterbury  in  the  Chapel  Royal)  the  incumbent 
got  up  at  the  altar  and  declared  his  belief  that 
great  part  of  the  doctrine  of  the  sermon  was  un- 
true, and  that  he  had  expected  a  sermon  of  an 
entirely  different  kind.  To  a  man  of  the  preacher's 
vehement  temperament  it  must  have  required  a 
great  effort  not  to  reply  at  the  moment.    The  con- 


Prefatory  Memoir  33 

gregation  was  keenly  excited,  and  evidently  ex- 
pected him  to  do  so.  He  only  bowed  his  head, 
pronounced  the  blessing,  and  came  down  from  the 
pulpit. 

I  must  go  back  a  little  to  take  up  the  thread  of 
his  connection  with,  and  work  for,  the  Society  for 
Promoting  Working  Men's  Associations.  After  it 
had  passed  the  first  difficulties  of  starting,  he  was 
seldom  able  to  attend  either  council  or  central 
board.  Every  one  else  felt  how  much  more  im- 
portant and  difficult  work  he  was  doing  by  fighting 
the  battle  in  the  press,  down  at  Eversley,  but  he 
himself  was  eager  to  take  part  in  the  everyday 
business,  and  uneasy  if  he  was  not  well  informed 
as  to  what  was  going  on. 

Sometimes,  however,  he  would  come  up  to  the 
council,  when  any  matter  specially  interesting  to 
him  was  in  question,  as  in  the  following  example, 
when  a  new  member  of  the  council,  an  Eton 
master,  had  objected  to  some  strong  expressions 
in  one  of  his  letters  on  the  Frimley  murder,  in  the 
"  Christian  Socialist "  : 

1849.  —  "The  upper  classes  are  like  a  Yankee 
captain  sitting  on  the  safety-valve,  and  serenely 
whistling  —  but  what  will  be  will  be.  As  for  the 
worthy  Eton  parson,  I  consider  it  infinitely  expedi- 
ent that  he  be  entreated  to  vent  his  whole  dislike 
in  the  open  council  forthv;ith,  under  a  promise  on 
my  part  not  to  involve  him  in  any  controversy  or 
reprisals,  or  to  answer  in  any  tone  except  that  of 
the  utmost  courtesy  and  respect.  Pray  do  this. 
It  will  at  once  be  a  means  of  gaining  him,  and  a 
good  example,  please  God,  to  the  working  men ; 
and  for  the  Frimley  letter,  put  it  in  the  fire  if  you 
like,   or  send   it  back  to   have  the   last  half  re- 


34  Prefatory  Memoir 

written,  or  *  anything  else  you  like,  my  pretty  little 
dear.' " 

But  his  prevailing  feeling  was  getting  to  be,  that 
he  was  becoming  an  outsider  — 

"  Nobody  deigns  to  tell  me,"  he  wrote  to  me, 
"  how  things  go  on,  and  who  helps,  and  whether 
I  can  help.  In  short,  I  know  nothing,  and  begin 
to  fancy  that  you,  like  some  others,  think  me  a 
lukewarm  and  time-serving  aristocrat,  after  I  have 
ventured  more  than  many,  because  I  had  more 
to  venture." 

The  same  feeling  comes  out  in  the  following 
letter,  which  illustrates  too,  very  well,  both  his 
deepest  conviction  as  to  the  work,  the  mixture  of 
playfulness  and  earnestness  with  which  he  handled 
it,  and  his  humble  estimate  of  himself.  It  refers 
to  the  question  of  the  admission  of  a  new  asso- 
ciation to  the  union.  It  was  necessary,  of  course, 
to  see  that  the  rules  of  a  society,  applying  for 
admission  to  the  union,  were  in  proper  form,  and 
that  sufficient  capital  was  forthcoming,  and  the 
decision  lay  with  the  central  board,  controlled  in 
some  measure  by  the  council  of  promoters. 

An  association  of  clay-pipe  makers  had  applied 
for  admission,  and  had  been  refused  by  the  vote  of 
the  central  board.  The  council,  however,  thought 
there  were  grounds  for  reconsidering  the  decision, 
and  to  strengthen  the  case  for  admission.  Kings* 
ley's  opinion  was  asked.     He  replied : 

"EvERSLEY,  May  31,  1850. 

"  The  sight  of  your  handwriting  comforted  me  — 

for  nobody  takes  any  notice  of  me,  not  even  the 

printers ;  so  I  revenge  myself  by  being  as  idle  as 

a  dog,  and  fishing,  and  gardening,  and  basking  in 


Prefatory  Memoir  35 

this  glorious  sun.  But  your  letter  set  me  thank- 
ing God  that  he  has  raised  up  men  to  do  the 
work  of  which  I  am  not  worthy.  As  for  the  pipe- 
makers,  give  my  compliments  to  the  autocrats,  and 
tell  them  it  is  a  shame.  The  vegetarians  would 
have  quite  as  much  right  to  refuse  the  butchers, 
because,  forsooth,  this  is  now  discovered  not  to 
be  a  necessary  trade.  Bosh !  The  question  is 
this  —  If  association  be  a  great  Divine  law  and 
duty,  the  realization  of  the  Church  idea,  no  man 
has  a  rigJit  to  refuse  any  body  of  men,  into  whose 
heart  God  has  put  it  to  come  and  associate.  It 
may  be  answered  that  these  men's  motives  are 
self-interested.  I  say,  '  Judge  no  man.'  You  dare 
not  refuse  a  heathen  baptism  because  you  choose 
to  think  that  his  only  motive  for  turning  Christian 
is  the  selfish  one  of  saving  his  own  rascally  soul. 
No  more  have  you  a  right  to  refuse  to  men  an 
entrance  into  the  social  Church.  They  must  come 
in,  and  they  will,  because  association  is  not  men's 
dodge  and  invention  but  God's  law  for  mankind 
and  society,  which  He  has  made,  and  we  must  not 
limit.  I  don't  know  whether  I  am  intelligible,  but 
what 's  more  important,  I  know  I  am  right.  Just 
read  this  to  the  autocrats,  and  tell  them  with  my 
compliments,  they  are  popes,  tyrants,  Manichees, 
ascetics,  sectarians,  and  everything  else  that  is 
abominable ;  and  if  they  used  as  many  pipes  as  I 
do,  they  would  know  the  blessing  of  getting  them 
cheap  and  start  an  associate  baccy  factory  besides. 
Shall  we  try?  But,  this  one  little  mistake  excepted 
(though,  if  they  repeat  it,  it  will  become  a  great 
mistake,  and  a  wrong,  and  a  ruinous  wrong),  they 
are  much  better  fellows  than  poor  I,  and  doing  a 
great  deal  more  good,  and  at  every  fresh  news  of 


36  Prefatory  Memoir 

their  deeds  I  feel  like  Job's  horse,  when  he  scents 
the  battle  afar  off." 

No  small  part  of  the  work  of  the  council  con  • 
sisted  in  mediating  and  arbitrating  in  the  disputes 
between  the  associates  and  their  managers;  indeed, 
such  work  kept  the  legal  members  of  the  board 
(none  of  whom  were  then  overburdened  with  regu- 
lar practice)  pretty  fully  occupied.  Some  such 
dispute  had  arisen  in  one  of  the  most  turbulent  of 
these  associations,  and  had  been  referred  to  me  for 
settlement.  I  had  satisfied  myself  as  to  the  facts, 
and  considered  my  award,  and  had  just  begun  to 
write  out  the  draft,  when  I  was  called  away  from 
my  chambers,  and  left  the  opening  lines  lying  on 
my  desk.  They  ran  as  follows :  "  The  Trustees 
of  the  Mile  End  Association  of  Engineers,  seeing 
that  the  quarrels  between  the  associates  have  not 
ceased  "  —  at  which  word  I  broke  off.  On  return- 
ing to  my  chambers  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  I 
found  a  continuation  in  the  following  words: 

"  And  that  every  man  is  too  much  inclined  to  behave  him- 
self like  a  beast. 
In  spite  of  our  glorious  humanity,  which  requires  neither 

God  nor  priest,  v 
Yet  is  daily  praised  and  plastered  by  ten  thousand  fools 
•    at  least  — 
Request  Mr.  Hughes*  presence  at  their  jawshop  in  the 

East, 
Which  don't  they  wish  they  may  get  it,  for  he  goes  out 

to-night  to  feast 
At  the  Rev.  C.  Kingsley's  rectory,  Chelsea,  where  he  '11  get 

his  gullet  greased 
With  the  best  of  Barto  Valle's  port,  and  will  have  his  joys 

increased 
By  meeting  his  old  college  chum,  McDougal  the  Borneo 

priest  — 


Prefatory  Memoir  37 

So  come  you  thief  and  drop  your  brief, 

At  six  o'clock  without  relief ; 

And  if  you  won't  may  you  come  to  grief, 

Says  Parson  Lot  the  Socialist  Chief, 

Who  signs  his  mark  at  the  foot  of  the  leaf —  thus  " 

and,  at  the  end,  a  clenched  fist  was  sketched  in  a 
few  bold  lines,  and  under  it,  "  Parson  Lot,  his 
mark  "  written. 

I  don't  know  that  I  can  do  better  than  give  the 
history  of  the  rest  of  the  day.  Knowing  his  town 
habits  well,  I  called  at  Parker  the  publisher's,  after 
chambers,  and  found  him  there,  sitting  on  a  table 
and  holding  forth  on  politics  to  our  excellent  little 
friend,  John  Wm.  Parker,  the  junior  partner. 

We  started  to  walk  down  to  Chelsea,  and  a  dense 
fog  came  on  before  we  had  reached  Hyde  Park 
Corner.  Both  of  us  knew  the  way  well ;  but  we 
lost  it  half  a  dozen  times,  and  his  spirit  seemed  to 
rise  as  the  fog  thickened.  "Isn't  this  Hke  life?" 
he  said,  after  one  of  our  blunders :  "  a  deep  yellow 
fog  all  round,  with  a  dim  light  here  and  there 
shinmg  through.  You  grope  your  way  on  from 
one  lamp  to  another,  and  you  go  up  wrong  streets 
and  back  again ;  but  you  get  home  at  last  —  there 's 
always  light  enough  for  that."  After  a  short  pause 
he  said,  quite  abruptly,  "  Tom,  do  you  want  to  live 
to  be  old?"  I  said  I  had  never  thought  on  the 
subject;  and  he  went  on,  "  I  dread  it  more  than  I 
can  say.  To  feel  one's  powers  going,  and  to  end 
in  snuff  and  stink.  Look  at  the  last  days  of  Scott, 
and  Wordsworth,  and  Southey."  I  suggested  St. 
John.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "that's  the  right  thing, 
and  will  do  for  Bunsen,  and  great,  tranquil  men  like 
him.  The  longer  they  live  the  better  for  all.  But 
for  an  eager,  fiery  nature  like  mine,  with  fierce 


38  Prefatory  Memoir 

passions  eating  one's  life  out,  it  won't  do.  If  I 
live  twenty  years  I  know  what  will  happen  to  me. 
The  back  of  my  brain  will  soften,  and  I  shall  most 
likely  go  blind." 

The  Bishop  got  down  somehow  by  six.  The 
dinner  did  not  last  long,  for  the  family  were  away, 
and  afterwards  we  adjourned  to  the  study,  and 
Parson  Lot  rose  to  his  best.  He  stood  before  the 
fire,  while  the  Bishop  and  I  took  the  two  fireside 
arm-chairs,  and  poured  himself  out,  on  subject 
after  subject,  sometimes  when  much  moved  taking 
a  tramp  up  and  down  the  room,  a  long  clay  pipe 
in  his  right  hand  (at  which  he  gave  an  occasional 
suck ;  it  was  generally  out,  but  he  scarcely  noticed 
it),  and  his  left  hand  passed  behind  his  back,  clasp- 
ing the  right  elbow.  It  was  a  favorite  attitude  with 
him,  when  he  was  at  ease  with  his  company. 

We  were  both  bent  on  drawing  him  out ;  and 
the  first  topic,  I  think,  raised  by  the  Bishop  was, 
Froude's  history,  then  recently  published.  He  took 
up  the  cudgels  for  Henry  VIII.,  whom  we  accused 
of  arbitrariness.  Henry  was  not  arbitrary;  arbi- 
trary men  are  the  most  obstinate  of  men?  Why? 
Because  they  are  weak.  The  strongest  men  are 
always  ready  to  hear  reason  and  change  their 
opinions,  because  the  strong  man  knows  that  if  he 
loses  an  opinion  to-day  he  can  get  just  as  good  a 
one  to-morrow  in  its  place.  But  the  weak  man 
holds  on  to  his  opinion,  because  he  can't  get 
another,  and  he  knows  it. 

Soon  afterwards  he  got  upon  trout  fishing,  which 
was  a  strong  bond  of  union  between  him  and  me, 
and  discoursed  on  the  proper  methods  of  fishing 
chalk  streams.  "  Your  flies  can't  be  too  big,  but 
they  must  be  on  small  gut,  not  on  base-viol  fiddle- 


Prefatory  Memoir  39 

strings,  like  those  you  brought  down  to  Farnham 
last  year.  I  tell  you  gut  is  the  thing  that  does  it. 
Trout  know  that  flies  don't  go  about  with  a  ring 
and  a  hand  pole  through  their  noses,  like  so  many 
prize  bulls  of  Lord  Ducie's." 

Then  he  got  on  the  possible  effect  of  association 
on  the  future  of  England,  and  from  that  to  the  first 
international  exhibition,  and  the  building  which 
was  going  up  in  Hyde  Park. 

"  I  mean  to  run  amuck  soon,"  he  said,  "  against 
all  this  talk  about  genius  and  high  art,  and  the  rest 
of  it.  It  will  be  the  ruin  of  us,  as  it  has  been  of 
Germany.  They  have  been  for  fifty  years  finding 
out,  and  showing  people  how  to  do  everything  in 
heaven  and  earth,  and  have  done  nothing.  They 
are  dead  even  yet,  and  will  be  till  they  get  out  of 
the  high-art  fit.  We  were  dead,  and  the  French 
were  dead  till  their  revolution ;  but  that  brought 
us  to  life.  Why  did  n't  the  Germans  come  to  life 
too?  Because  they  set  to  work  with  their  arts, 
sciences,  and  how  to  do  this,  that,  and  the  other 
thing,  and  doing  nothing.  Goethe  was,  in  great 
part,  the  ruin  of  Germany.  He  was  like  a  great 
fog  coming  down  on  the  German  people,  and 
wrapping  them  up." 

Then  he,  in  his  turn,  drew  the  Bishop  about 
Borneo,  and  its  people,  and  fauna  and  flora;  and 
we  got  some  delightful  stories  of  apes,  and  con- 
verts, and  honey  bears,  Kingsley  showing  himself, 
by  his  questions,  as  familiar  with  the  Bornean 
plants  and  birds  as  though  he  had  lived  there. 
Later  on  we  got  him  on  his  own  works,  and  he  told 
us  how  he  wrote.  "  I  can't  think,  even  on  scien- 
tific subjects,  except  in  the  dramatic  form.  It  is 
what  Tom  said  to  Harry,  and  what  Harry  answered 


4©  Prefatory  Memoir 

him.  I  never  put  pen  to  paper  till  I  have  two  or 
three  pages  in  my  head,  and  see  them  as  if  they 
were  printed.  Then  I  write  them  off,  and  take  a 
turn  in  the  garden,  and  so  on  again."  We  wan- 
dered back  to  fishing,  and  I  challenged  his  keen- 
ness for  making  a  bag.  "  Ah  !  "  he  said,  "  that 's 
all  owing  to  my  blessed  habit  of  intensity,  which 
has  been  my  greatest  help  in  life.  I  go  at  what  I 
am  about  as  if  there  was  nothing  else  in  the  world 
for  the  time  being.  That 's  the  secret  of  all  hard- 
working men  ;  but  most  of  them  can't  carry  it  into 
their  amusements.  Luckily  for  me  I  can  stop  from 
all  work,  at  short  notice,  and  turn  head  over  heels 
in  the  sight  of  all  creation,  and  say,  I  won't  be 
good  or  bad,  or  wise,  or  anything,  till  two  o'clock 
to-morrow," 

At  last  the  Bishop  would  go,  so  we  groped  our 
way  with  him  into  the  King's  Road,  and  left  him  in 
charge  of  a  link-boy.  When  we  got  back,  I  said 
something  laughingly  about  his  gift  of  talk,  which 
had  struck  me  more  that  evening  than  ever  before, 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  have  it  all  in  me.  I  could  be 
as  great  a  talker  as  any  man  in  England,  but  for 
my  stammering.  I  know  it  well ;  but  it 's  a  blessed 
thing  for  me.  You  must  know,  by  this  time,  that 
I  *m  a  very  shy  fnan,  and  shyness  and  vanity 
always  go  together.  And  so  I  think  of  what 
every  fool  will  say  of  me,  and  can't  help  it.  When 
a  man's  first  thought  is  not  whether  a  thing  is 
right  or  wrong,  but  what  will  Lady  A.  or  Mr.  B. 
say  about  it,  depend  upon  it  he  wants  a  thorn  in 
the  flesh,  like  my  stammer.  When  I  am  speaking 
for  God,  in  the  pulpit,  or  praying  by  bedsides,  I 
never  stammer.  My  stammer  is  a  blessed  thing 
for  me.     It  keeps  me  from  talking  in  company, 


Prefatory  Memoir  41 

and  from  going  out  as  much  as  I  should  do  but 
for  it" 

It  was  two  o'clock  before  we  thought  of  moving, 
and  then,  the  fog  being  as  bad  as  ever,  he  insisted 
on  making  me  up  a  bed  on  the  floor.  While  we 
were  engaged  in  this  process,  he  confided  to  me 
that  he  had  heard  of  a  doctor  who  was  very  suc- 
cessful in  curing  stammering,  and  was  going  to  try 
him.  I  laughed,  and  reminded  him  of  his  thorn  in 
the  flesh,  to  which  he  replied,  with  a  quaint  twinkle 
of  his  eye,  "  Well,  that 's  true  enough.  But  a  man 
has  no  right  to  be  a  nuisance,  if  he  can  help  it,  and 
no  more  right  to  go  about  amongst  his  fellows 
stammering,  than  he  has  to  go  about  stinking." 

At  this  time  he  was  already  at  work  on  another 
novel ;  and,  in  answer  to  a  remonstrance  from  a 
friend,  who  was  anxious  that  he  should  keep  all  his 
strength  for  social  reform,  writes  — 

185 1.  —  "I  know  that  He  has  made  me  a  parish 
priest,  and  that  that  is  the  duty  which  lies  nearest 
me,  and  that  I  may  seem  to  be  leaving  my  calling 
in  novel  writing.  But  has  He  not  taught  me  all 
these  very  things  by  my  parish  priest  life?  Did 
He,  too,  let  me  become  a  strong,  daring,  sporting, 
wild  man  of  the  woods  for  nothing?  Surely  the 
education  He  has  given  me  so  different  from  that 
which  authors  generally  receive,  points  out  to  me  a 
peculiar  calling  to  preach  on  these  points  from  my 
own  experience,  as  it  did  to  good  old  Isaac  Wal- 
ton, as  it  has  done  in  our  own  day  to  that  truly 
noble  man  Captain  Marryat.  Therefore  I  must 
believe,  '  si  tu  sequi  la  tua  Stella^  with  Dante,  that 
He  who  ordained  my  star  will  not  lead  me  into 
temptation,  but  through  it,  as  Maurice  says. 
Without  Him  all  places  and  methods  of  life  are 

Vol.  ni— 3 


42  Prefatory  Memoir 

equally  dangerous  —  with  Him,  all  equally  safe. 
Pray  for  me,  for  in  myself  I  am  weaker  of  purpose 
than  a  lost  greyhound,  lazier  than  a  dog  in  rainy 
weather." 

While  the  co-operative  movement  was  spreading 
in  all  directions,  the  same  impulse  was  working 
amongst  the  trades  unions,  and  the  engineers  had 
set  the  example  of  uniting  all  their  branches  into 
one  society.  In  this  winter  they  believed  them- 
selves strong  enough  to  try  conclusions  with  their 
employers.  The  great  lock-out  in  January,  1852, 
was  the  consequence.  The  engineers  had  appealed 
to  the  Council  of  Promoters  to  help  them  in  put- 
ting their  case  —  which  had  been  much  misrepre- 
sented —  fairly  before  the  public,  and  Kingsley  had 
been  consulted  as  the  person  best  able  to  do  it. 
He  had  declined  to  interfere,  and  wrote  me  the 
following  letter  to  explain  his  views.  It  will  show 
how  far  he  was  an  encourager  of  violent  measures 
or  views?  — 

"EvERSLEY,  January  28,  1852. 

"You  may  have  been  surprised  at  my  having 
taken  no  part  in  this  Amalgamated  Iron  Trades' 
matter.  And  I  think  that  I  am  bound  to  say  why 
I  have  not,  and  how  far  I  wish  my  friends  to 
interfere  in  it. 

"  I  do  think  that  we,  the  Council  of  Promoters, 
shall  not  be  wise  in  interfering  between  masters 
and  men;  because — i.  I  question  whether  the 
points  at  issue  between  them  can  be  fairly  under- 
stood by  any  persons  not  conversant  with  the 
practical  details  of  the  trade.  ,  .  . 

"  2.  Nor  do  I  think  they  have  put  their  case  as 
well  as  they  might.     For  instance,  if  it  be  true  that 


Prefatory  Memoir  43 

they  themselves  have  invented  many,  or  most,  of 
the  improvements  in  their  tools  and  machinery, 
they  have  an  argument  in  favor  of  keeping  out 
unskilled  laborers,  which  is  unanswerable,  and  yet, 
that  they  have  never  used  —  viz.  '  Your  masters 
make  hundreds  and  thousands  by  these  improve- 
ments, while  we  have  no  remuneration  for  this 
inventive  talent  of  ours,  but  rather  lose  by  it, 
because  it  makes  the  introduction  of  unskilled 
labor  more  easy.  Therefore,  the  only  way  in 
which  we  can  get  anything  like  a  payment  for  this 
inventive  faculty  of  which  we  make  you  a  present 
over  and  above  our  skilled  labor,  for  which  you 
bargained,  is  to  demand  that  we,  who  invent  the 
machines,  if  we  cannot  have  a  share  in  the  profits 
of  them,  shall  at  least  have  the  exclusive  privilege 
of  using  them  instead  of  their  being,  as  now, 
turned  against  us.'  That,  I  think,  is  a  fair  argu- 
ment; but  I  have  seen  nothing  of*  it  from  any 
speaker  or  writer. 

"  3.  I  think  whatever  battle  is  fought,  must  be 
fought  by  the  men  themselves.  The  present  dodge 
of  the  Manchester  school  is  to  cry  out  against  us, 
as  Greg  did.  'These  Christian  Socialists  are  a  set 
of  mediaeval  parsons,  who  want  to  hinder  the  inde- 
pendence and  self-help  of  the  men,  and  bring  them 
back  to  absolute  feudal  maxims;  and  then,  with 
the  most  absurd  inconsistency,  when  we  get  up  a 
corporation  workshop,  to  let  the  men  work  on  the 
very  independence  and  self-help  of  which  they 
talk  so  fine,  they  turn  round  and  raise  just  the 
opposite  yell  and  cry.  The  men  can't  be  inde- 
pendent of  capitalists ;  these  associations  will  fail 
because  the  men  are  helping  themselves'  —  showing 
that  what  they  mean  is,  that  the  men  shall   be 


44  Prefatory  Memoir 

independent  of  every  one  but  themselves  —  inde- 
pendent of  legislators,  parsons,  advisers,  gentle- 
men, noblemen,  and  every  one  that  tries  to  help 
them  by  moral  agents ;  but  the  slaves  of  the  capi- 
talists, bound  to  them  by  a  servitude  increasing 
instead  of  lightening  with  their  numbers.  Now, 
the  only  way  in  which  we  can  clear  the  cause  of 
this  calumny  is  to  let  the  men  fight  their  own 
battle ;  to  prevent  any  one  saying,  '  These  men 
are  the  tools  of  dreamers  and  fanatics,'  which 
would  be  just  as  ruinously  blackening  to  them  in 
the  public  eyes,  as  it  would  be  to  let  the  cry  get 
abroad,  '  This  is  a  Socialist  movement,  destructive 
of  rights  of  property,  communism,  Louis  Blanc, 
and  the  devil,  etc'  You  know  the  infernal  stuff 
which  the  devil  gets  up  on  such  occasions  — 
having  no  scruples  about  calling  himself  hard 
names,  when  it  suits  his  purpose,  to  blind  and 
frighten  respectable  old  women. 

"  Moreover,  these  men  are  not  poor  distressed 
needlewomen  or  slop-workers.  They  are  the  most 
intelligent  and  best  educated  workmen,  receiving 
incomes  often  higher  than  a  gentleman's  son  whose 
education  has  cost  ;^iooo,  and  if  they  can't  fight 
their  own  battles,  no  men  in  England  can,  and  the 
people  are  not  ripe  for  association,  and  we  must 
hark  back  into  the  competitive  rot  heap  again. 
All,  then,  that  we  can  do  is,  to  give  advice  when 
asked  —  to  see  that  they  have,  as  far  as  we  can  get 
at  them,  a  clear  stage  and  no  favor,  but  not  by 
public,  but  by  private  influence. 

"  But  we  can  help  them  in  another  way,  by 
showing  them  the  way  to  associate.  That  is  quite 
a  distinct  question  from  their  quarrel  with  their 
masters,  and  we  shall  be  very  foolish  if  we  give 


Prefatory  Memoir  45 

the  press  a  handle  for  mixing  up  the  two.  We 
have  a  right  to  say  to  masters,  men,  and  public, 
'  We  know  and  care  nothing  about  the  iron  strike. 
Here  are  a  body  of  men  coming  to  us,  wishing  to 
be  shown  how  to  do  that  which  is  a  right  thing 
for  them  to  do  —  well  or  ill  off,  strike  or  no  strike, 
namely,  associate ;  and  we  will  help  and  teach 
them  to  do  that  to  the  very  utmost  of  our  power.' 

"  The  Iron  Workers'  co-operative  shops  will  be 
watched  with  lynx  eyes,  calumniated  shamelessly. 
Our  business  will  be  to  tell  the  truth  about  them, 
and  fight  manfully  with  our  pens  for  them.  But 
we  shall  never  be  able  to  get  the  ears  of  the 
respectabilities  and  the  capitalists,  if  we  appear  at 
this  stage  of  business.  What  we  must  say  is,  '  If 
you  are  needy  and  enslaved,  we  will  fight  for  you 
from  pity,  whether  you  be  associated  or  competitive. 
But  you  are  neither  needy,  nor,  unless  you  choose, 
enslaved ;  and  therefore  we  will  only  fight  for  you 
in  proportion  as  you  become  associates.  Do  that, 
and  see  if  we  can't  stand  hard  knocks  for  your 
sake.'  — Yours  ever  affectionate,  C  Kingsley." 

In  the  summer  of  1852  (mainly  by  the  continued 
exertions  of  the  members  of  the  council,  who  had 
supplied  Mr.  Slaney's  committee  with  all  his  evi- 
dence, and  had  worked  hard  in  other  ways  for  this 
object)  a  bill  for  legalizing  industrial  associations 
was  about  to  be  introduced  into  the  House  of 
Commons.  It  was  supposed  at  one  time  that  it 
would  be  taken  in  hand  by  the  Government  of 
Lord  Derby,  then  lately  come  into  office,  and 
Kingsley  had  been  canvassing  a  number  of  persons 
to  make  sure  of  its  passing.  On  hearing  that  a 
Cabinet  Minister  would  probably  undertake  it,  he 
writes : 


46  Prefatory  Memoir 

"  Let  him  be  assured  that  he  will  by  such  a 
move  do  more  to  carry  out  true  conservatism,  and 
to  reconcile  the  workmen  with  the  real  aristocracy, 
than  any  politician  for  the  last  twenty  years  has 
done.  The  truth  is,  we  are  in  a  critical  situation 
here  in  England.  Not  in  one  of  danger  —  which 
is  the  vulgar  material  notion  of  a  crisis,  but  at  the 
crucial  point,  the  point  of  departure  of  principles 
and  parties  which  will  hereafter  become  great  and 
powerful.  Old  Whiggery  is  dead,  old  true  blue 
Toryism  of  the  Robert  Inglis  school  is  dead  too  — 
and  in  my  eyes  a  great  loss.  But  as  live  dogs  are 
better  than  dead  lions,  let  us  see  what  the  live 
dogs  are. 

"  I.  The  Peelites,  who  will  ultimately,  be  sure, 
absorb  into  themselves  all  the  remains  of  Whig- 
gery, and  a  very  large  proportion  of  the  Conser- 
vative party.  In  an  effete  unbelieving  age,  like 
this,  the  Sadducee  and  the  Herodian  will  be  the 
most  captivating  philosopher.  A  scientific  lazi- 
ness, lukewarmness,  and  compromise,  is  a  cheery 
theory  for  the  young  men  of  the  day,  and  they 
will  take  to  it  con  amore.  I  don't  complain  of 
Peel  himself  He  was  a  great  man,  but  his  method 
of  compromise,  though  useful  enough  in  particular 
cases  when  employed  by  a  great  man,  becomes  a 
most  dastardly  ^schema  tnimdV  when  taken  up  by 
a  school  of  little  men.  Therefore  the  only  help 
which  we  can  hope  for  from  the  Peelites  is  that 
they  will  serve  as  ballast  and  cooling  pump  to 
both  parties,  but  their  very  trimming  and  modera- 
tion make  them  fearfully  likely  to  obtain  power. 
It  depends  on  the  wisdom  of  the  present  govern- 
ment, whether  they  do  or  not. 

"  2.  Next  you  have  the  Manchester  school,  from 


Prefatory  Memoir  47 

whom  Heaven  defend  us ;  for  of  all  narrow,  con- 
ceited, hypocritical,  and  anarchic  and  atheistic 
schemes  of  the  universe,  the  Cobden  and  Bright  one 
is  exactly  the  worst.  I  have  no  language  to  express 
my  contempt  for  it,  and  therefore  I  quote  what  Mau- 
rice wrote  me  this  morning.  *  If  the  Ministry  would 
have  thrown  Protection  to  the  dogs  (as  I  trust  they 
have,  in  spite  of  the  base  attempts  of  the  Corn  Law 
Leaguers  to  goad  them  to  committing  themselves 
to  it,  and  to  hold  them  up  as  the  people's  enemies), 
and  throw  themselves  into  social  measures,  who 
would  not  have  clung  to  them,  to  avert  that  horri- 
ble catastrophe  of  a  Manchester  ascendency,  which 
I  believe  in  my  soul  would  be  fatal  to  intellect, 
morality,  and  freedom,  and  will  be  more  likely  to 
move  a  rebellion  among  the  working  men  than  any 
Tory  rule  which  can  be  conceived.' 

"  Of  course  it  would.  To  pretend  to  be  the 
workmen's  friends,  by  keeping  down  the  price  of 
bread,  when  all  they  want  thereby  is  to  keep  down 
wages  and  increase  profits,  and  in  the  meantime  to 
widen  the  gulf  between  the  working  man  and  all 
that  is  time-honored,  refined,  and  chivalrous  in 
English  society,  that  they  may  make  the  men  their 
divided  slaves,  that  is —  perhaps  half  unconsciously, 
for  there  are  excellent  men  amongst  them  —  the 
game  of  the  Manchester  school." 

"  I  have  never  swerved  from  my  one  idea  of  the 
last  seven  years,  that  the  real  battle  of  the  time  is, 
if  England  is  to  be  saved  from  anarchy  and  unbe- 
lief, and  utter  exhaustion  caused  by  the  competi- 
tive enslavement  of  the  masses,  not  Radical  or 
Whig  against  Peelite  or  Tory — let  the  dead  bury 
their  dead  —  but  the  Church,  the  gentlemen,  and 
the  workman,  against   the   shopkeepers   and    the 


48  Prefatory  Memoir 

Manchester  school.  The  battle  could  not  have 
been  fought  forty  years  ago,  because  on  one  side 
the  Church  was  an  idle  phantasm,  the  gentlemen 
too  ignorant,  the  workman  too  merely  animal; 
while,  on  the  other,  the  Manchester  cotton-spinners 
were  all  Tories,  and  the  shop-keepers  were  a  dis- 
tinct class  interest  from  theirs.  But  now  these  two 
latter  have  united,  and  the  sublime  incarnation  of 
shop-keeping  and  labor-buying  in  the  cheapest 
market  shines  forth  in  the  person  of  Moses  and 
Son,  and  both  cotton-spinners  and  shop-keepers 
say  '  This  is  the  man ! '  and  join  in  one  common 
press  to  defend  his  system.  Be  it  so :  now  we 
know  our  true  enemies,  and  soon  the  working  men 
will  know  them  also.  But  if  the  present  ministry 
will  not  see  the  possibility  of  a  coalition  between 
them  and  the  workmen,  I  see  no  alternative  but 
just  what  we  have  been  straining  every  nerve  to 
keep  off — a  competitive  United  States,  a  democ- 
racy before  which  the  work  of  ages  will  go  down 
in  a  few  years.  A  true  democracy,  such  as  you 
and  I  should  wish  to  see,  is  impossible  without  a 
Church  and  a  Queen,  and,  as  I  believe,  without  a 
gentry.  On  the  conduct  of  statesmen  it  will  de- 
pend whether  we  are  gladly  and  harmoniously  to 
develop  England  on  her  ancient  foundations,  or 
whether  we  are  to  have  fresh  paralytic  govern- 
ments succeeding  each  other  in  doing  nothing, 
while  the  workmen  and  the  Manchester  school 
fight  out  the  real  questions  of  the  day  in  ignorance 
and  fury,  till  the  * culbute  generate'  comes,  and 
gentlemen  of  ancient  family,  like  your  humble 
servant,  betake  themselves  to  Canada,  to  escape, 
not  the  Amalgamated  Engineers,  but  their  '  mas- 
ters,'  and  the  slop-working  savages  whom  their 


Prefatory  Memoir  49 

masters'  system  has  created,  and  will  by  that  time 
have  multiplied  tenfold. 

"  I  have  got  a  Thames  boat  on  the  lake  at 
Bramshill,  and  am  enjoying  vigorous  sculls.  My 
answer  to  '  Fraser '  is  just  coming  out ;  spread  it 
where  you  can." 

In  the  next  year  or  two  the  first  excitement 
about  the  co-operative  movement  cooled  down. 
Parson  Lot's  pen  was  less  needed,  and  he  turned 
to  other  work  in  his  own  name.  Of  the  richness 
and  variety  of  that  work  this  is  not  the  place  to 
speak,  but  it  all  bore  on  the  great  social  problems 
which  had  occupied  him  in  the  earlier  years.  The 
Crimean  war  weighed  on  him  like  a  nightmare, 
and  modified  some  of  his  political  opinions.  On 
the  resignation  of  Lord  Aberdeen's  Government  on 
the  motion  for  inquiry  into  the  conduct  of  the  war, 
he  writes,  February  5,  1855  :  "  It  is  a  very  bad  job, 
and  a  very  bad  time,  be  sure,  and  with  a  laughing 
House  of  Commons  we  shall  go  to  Gehenna,  even  if 
we  are  not  there  already  —  But  one  comfort  is,  that 
even  Gehenna  can  burn  nothing  but  the  chaff  and  car- 
cases, so  we  shall  be  none  the  poorer  in  reality.  So 
as  the  frost  has  broken  gloriously,  I  wish  you  would 
get  me  a  couple  of  dozen  of  good  flies,  viz.  cock  a 
bondhues,  red  palmers  with  plenty  of  gold  twist; 
winged  duns,  with  bodies  of  hare's  ear  and  yellow 
mohair  mixed  well ;  hackle  duns  with  gray  bodies, 
and  a  wee  silver,  these  last  tied  as  palmers,  and 
the  silver  ribbed  all  the  way  dov/n.  If  you  could 
send  them  in  a  week  I  shall  be  very  glad,  as  fish- 
ing begins  early." 

In  the  midst  of  the  war  he  was  present  one  day 
at  a  council  meeting,  after  which  the  manager  of 
one   of  the   associations  referring   to   threatened 


50  Prefatory  Memoir 

bread  riots  at  Manchester,  asked  Kingsley's  opin- 
ion as  to  what  should  be  done.  "  There  never 
were  but  two  ways,"  he  said,  "  since  the  beginning 
of  the  world  of  dealing  with  a  corn  famine.  One 
is  to  let  the  merchants  buy  it  up  and  hold  it  as 
long  as  they  can,  as  we  do.  And  this  answers  the 
purpose  best  m  the  long  run,  for  they  will  be  sell- 
ing corn  six  months  hence  when  we  shall  want  it 
more  than  we  do  now,  and  makes  us  provident 
against  our  wills.  The  other  is  Joseph's  plan." 
Here  the  manager  broke  hi,  "  Why  did  n't  our 
Government  step  in  then,  and  buy  largely,  and 
store  in  public  granaries?"  "Yes,"  said  Kingsley, 
"  and  why  ain't  you  and  I  flying  about  with  wings 
and  dewdrops  hanging  to  our  tails?  Joseph's  plan 
won't  do  for  us.  What  minister  would  we  trust 
with  money  enough  to  buy  corn  for  the  people, 
or  power  to  buy  where  he  chose  ?  "  And  he  went 
on  to  give  his  questioner  a  lecture  in  political 
economy,  which  the  most  orthodox  opponent  of 
the  popular  notions  about  Socialism  would  have 
applauded  to  the  echo. 

By  the  end  of  the  year  he  had  nearly  finished 
"  Westward  Ho !  "  —  the  most  popular  of  his 
novels,  which  the  war  had  literally  wrung  out  of 
him.     He  writes: 

"  December  i8,  1855. 

"  I  am  getting  more  of  a  Government  man  every 
day.  I  don't  see  how  they  could  have  done  better 
in  any  matter,  because  I  don't  see  but  that  / 
should  have  done  a  thousand  times  worse  in  their 
place,  and  that  is  the  only  fair  standard. 

"  As  for  a  ballad  —  oh !  my  dear  lad,  there  is 
no   use  fiddling  while  Rome  is  burning.     I  have 


Prefatory  Memoir  51 

nothing  to  sing  about  those  glorious  fellows,  ex- 
cept '  God  save  the  Queen  and  them.'  I  tell  you 
the  whole  thing  stuns  me,  so  I  cannot  sit  down 
to  make  fiddle  rhyme  with  diddle  about  it  —  or 
blundered  with  hundred  like  Alfred  Tennyson. 
He  is  no  Tyrtaeus,  though  he  has  a  glimpse  of 
what  Tyrtaeus  ought  to  be.  But  I  have  not  even 
that;  and  am  going  rabbit-shooting  to-morrow 
instead.  But  every  man  has  his  calling,  and  my 
novel  is  mine,  because  I  am  fit  for  nothing  better. 
The  book  "  (  Westward  Ho  !  )  "  will  be  out  the 
middle  or  end  of  January,  if  the  printers  choose. 
It  is  a  sanguinary  book,  but  perhaps  containing 
doctrine  profitable  for  these  times.  My  only  pain 
is  that  I  have  been  forced  to  sketch  poor  Paddy 
as  a  very  worthless  fellow  then,  while  just  now  he 
is  turning  out  a  hero.  I  have  made  the  deliberate 
amende  honorable  in  a  note." 

Then,  referring  to  some  criticism  of  mine  on 
"  Westward  Ho  !  "  —  "I  suppose  you  are  right  as 
to  Amyas  and  his  mother ;  I  will  see  to  it.  You 
are  probably  right  too  about  John  Hawkins.  The 
letter  in  Purchas  is  to  me  unknown,  but  your  con- 
ception agrees  with  a  picture  my  father  says  he 
has  seen  of  Captain  John  (he  thinks  at  Lord 
Anglesey's,  at  Beaudesert)  as  a  prim,  hard,  terrier- 
faced,  little  fellow,  with  a  sharp  chin,  and  a  dogged 
Puritan  eye.  So  perhaps  I  am  wrong:  but  I 
don't  think  that  very  important,  for  there  must 
have  been  sea-dogs  of  my  stamp  in  plenty  too." 
Then,  referring  to  the  Crimean  war  —  "I  don't  say 
that  the  two  cases  are  parallel.  I  don't  ask 
England  to  hate  Russia  as  she  was  bound  to 
hate  Spain,  as  God's  enemy;  but  I  think  that  a 
little  Tudor  pluck  and  Tudor  democracy  (para- 


52  Prefatory  Memoir 

doxical  as  the  word  may  seem,  and  inconsistently 
as  it  was  carried  out  then)  is  just  what  we  want 
now." 

"  Tummas !  Have  you  read  the  story  of  Abou 
Zennab  his  horse,  in  Stanley's  'Sinai,'  p.  6^} 
What  a  myth !  What  a  poem  old  Wordsworth 
would  have  writ  thereon !  If  I  did  n't  cry  like  a 
babby  over  it  What  a  brick  of  a  horse  he  must 
have  been,  and  what  a  brick  of  an  old  head-splitter 
Abou  Zennab  must  have  been,  to  have  his  com- 
mandments keeped  unto  this  day  concerning  of  his 
horse  ;  and  no  one  to  know  who  he  was,  nor  when, 
nor  how,  nor  nothing.  I  wonder  if  anybody  '11 
keep  our  commandments  after  we  be  gone,  much 
less  say,  '  Eat,  eat,  O  horse  of  Abou  Kingsley ! '  " 

By  this  time  the  success  of  "  Westward  Ho !  " 
and  "  Hypatia  "  had  placed  him  in  the  first  rank 
of  English  writers.  His  fame  as  an  author,  and 
his  character  as  a  man,  had  gained  him  a  position 
which  might  well  have  turned  any  man's  head. 
There  were  those  amongst  his  intimate  friends 
who  feared  that  it  might  be  so  with  him,  and  who 
were  faithful  enough  to  tell  him  so.  And  I  can- 
not conclude  this  sketch  better  than  by  giving  his 
answer  to  that  one  of  them  with  whom  he  had 
been  most  closely  associated  in  the  time  when, 
as  Parson  Lot,  every  man's  hand  had  been  against 
him  — 

"My  dear  Ludlow, 

"  And  for  this  fame,  etc., 

"  I  know  a  little  of  her  worth. 

"  And  I  will  tell  you  what  I  know. 

"  That,  in  the  first  place,  she  is  a  fact,  and  as 
such,  it  is  not  wise  to  ignore  her,  but  at  least  to 


Prefatory  Memoir  53 

walk  once  round  her,  and  see  her  back  as  well 
as  her  front. 

"  The  case  to  me  seems  to  be  this.  A  man  feels 
in  himself  the  love  of  praise.  Every  man  does  who 
is  not  a  brute.  It  is  a  universal  human  faculty ; 
Carlyle  nicknames  it  the  sixth  sense.  Who  made 
it?  God  or  the  devil?  Is  it  flesh  or  spirit?  a 
difficult  question ;  because  tamed  animals  grow  to 
possess  it  in  a  high  degree;  and  our  metaphysi- 
cian does  not  yet  allow  them  spirit.  But,  which- 
ever it  be,  it  cannot  be  for  bad :  only  bad  when 
misdirected,  and  not  controlled  by  reason,  the 
faculty  which  judges  between  good  and  evil.  Else 
why  has  God  put  His  love  of  praise  into  the  heart 
of  every  child  which  is  born  into  the  world,  and 
entwined  it  into  the  holiest  filial  and  family  affec- 
tions, as  the  earliest  mainspring  of  good  actions? 
Has  God  appointed  that  every  child  shall  be  fed 
first  with  a  necessary  lie,  and  afterwards  come  to 
the  knowledge  of  your  supposed  truth,  that  the 
praise  of  God  alone  is  to  be  sought?  Or  are  we 
to  believe  that  the  child  is  intended  to  be  taught 
as  delicately  and  gradually  as  possible  the  painful 
fact,  that  the  praise  of  all  men  is  not  equally  worth 
having,  and  to  use  his  critical  faculty  to  discern 
the  praise  of  good  men  from  the  praise  of  bad, 
to  seek  the  former  and  despise  the  latter?  I 
should  say  that  the  last  was  the  more  reasonable. 
And  this  I  will  say,  that  if  you  bring  up  any  child  to 
care  nothing  for  the  praise  of  its  parents,  its  elders, 
its  pastors,  and  masters,  you  may  make  a  fanatic 
of  it,  or  a  shameless  cynic ;  but  you  will  neither 
make  it  a  man,  an  Englishman,  nor  a  Christian. 

*•  But  '  our  Lord's  words  stand,  about  not  seek- 
ing the  honor  which  comes   from   men,  but  the 


54  Prefatory  Memoir 

honor  which  comes  from  God  only  I  *    True,  they 

do  stand,  and  our  Lord's  fact  stands  also,  the  fact 
that  He  has  created  every  child  to  be  educated 
by  an  honor  which  comes  from  his  parents  and 
elders.  Both  are  true.  Here,  as  in  most  spiritual 
things,  you  have  an  antinomia,  an  apparent  con- 
tradiction, which  nothing  but  the  Gospel  solves. 
And  it  does  solve  it ;  and  your  one-sided  view  of  the 
text  resolves  itself  into  just  the  same  fallacy  as  the 
old  ascetic  one.  '  We  must  love  God  alone,  there- 
fore we  must  love  no  created  thing.'  To  which 
St,  John  answers  pertinently,  *  He  who  loveth  not 
his  brother  whom  he  hath  seen,  how  can  he  love 
God  whom  he  hath  not  seen  ? '  If  you  love  your 
brethren,  you  love  Christ  in  them.  If  you  love 
their  praise,  you  love  the  praise  of  Christ  in  them. 
For  consider  this,  you  cannot  deny  that,  if  one 
loves  any  person  one  desires  that  person's  esteem. 
But  we  are  bound  to  love  all  men,  and  that  is  our 
highest  state.  Therefore,  in  our  highest  state,  we 
shall  desire  all  men's  esteem.  Paradoxical,  but 
true.  If  we  believe  in  Christmas-day,  if  we  be- 
lieve in  Whitsunday,  we  shall  believe  that  Christ  is 
in  all  men,  that  God's  spirit  is  abroad  in  the  earth, 
and  therefore  the  dispraise,  misunderstanding,  and 
calumny  of  men  will  be  exquisitely  painful  to  us, 
and  ought  to  be  so ;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
esteem  of  men,  and  renown  among  men  for  doing 
good  deeds  will  be  inexpressibly  precious  to  us. 
They  will  be  signs  and  warrants  to  us  that  God 
is  pleased  with  us,  that  we  are  sharing  in  that 
'  honor  and  glory '  which  Paul  promises  again 
and  again,  with  no  such  scruples  as  yours,  to  those 
who  lead  heroic  lives.  We  shall  not  neglect  the 
voice  of  God  within  us;  but  we  shall  remember 


Prefatory  Memoir  ^^ 

that  there  is  also  a  voice  of  God  without  us, 
which  we  must  listen  to ;  and  that  in  a  Christian 
land,  vox  popu/t,  patiently  and  discriminately  lis- 
tened to,  is  sure  to  be  found  not  far  off  from  the 
vox  Dei. 

"  Now,  let  me  seriously  urge  this  last  fact  on  you. 
Of  course,  in  listening  to  the  voice  of  the  man  out- 
side there  is  a  danger,  as  there  is  in  the  use  of  any 
faculty.  You  may  employ  it,  according  to  Divine 
reason  and  grace,  for  ennobling  and  righteous  pur- 
poses ;  or  you  may  degrade  it  to  carnal  and  selfish 
ones ;  so  you  may  degrade  the  love  of  praise  into 
vanity,  into  longing  for  the  honor  which  comes 
from  men,  by  pandering  to  their  passions  and 
opinions,  by  using  your  powers  as  they  would  too 
often  like  to  use  theirs,  for  mere  self-aggrandize- 
ment, by  saying  in  your  heart  —  guam  pulchrum 
digito  monstrari  et  diceri  hie  est.  That  is  the  man 
who  wrote  the  fine  poem,  who  painted  the  fine 
picture,  and  so  forth,  till,  by  giving  way  to  this, 
a  man  may  give  way  to  forms  of  vanity  as  base 
as  the  red  Indian  who  sticks  a  fox's  tail  on,  and 
dances  about  boasting  of  his  brute  cunning.  I 
know  all  about  that,  as  well  as  any  poor  son  of 
Adam  ever  did.  But  I  know,  too,  that  to  desire 
the  esteem  of  as  many  rational  men  as  possible ; 
in  a  word,  to  desire  an  honorable  and  true  renown 
for  having  done  good  in  my  generation,  has  noth- 
ing to  do  with  that;  and  the  more  I  fear  and 
struggle  against  the  former,  the  more  I  see  the 
exceeding  beauty  and  divineness,  and  everlasting 
glory  of  the  latter  as  an  entrance  into  the  com- 
munion of  saints. 

"  Of  course,  all  this  depends  on  whether  we  do 
believe  that  Christ  is  in  every  man,  and  that  God's 


56  Prefatory  Memoir 

spirit  is  abroad  in  the  earth.  Of  course,  again,  it 
will  be  very  difficult  to  know  who  speaks  by  God's 
spirit,  and  who  sees  by  Christ's  light  in  him ;  but 
surely  the  wiser,  the  humbler  path,  is  to  give  men 
credit  for  as  much  wisdom  and  rightness  as  pos- 
sible, and  to  beheve  that  when  one  is  found  fault 
with,  one  is  probably  in  the  wrong.  For  myself, 
on  looking  back,  I  see  clearly  with  shame  and 
sorrow,  that  the  obloquy  which  I  have  brought 
often  on  myself  and  on  the  good  cause,  has  been 
almost  all  of  it  my  own  fault  —  that  I  have  given 
the  devil  and  bad  men  a  handle,  not  by  caring 
what  people  would  say,  but  by  not  caring —  by 
fancying  that  I  was  a  very  grand  fellow,  who  was 
going  to  speak  what  I  knew  to  be  true,  in  spite  of 
all  fools  (and  really  did  and  do  intend  so  to  do), 
while  all  the  while  I  was  deceiving  myself,  and  un- 
aware of  a  canker  at  the  heart  the  very  opposite 
to  the  one  against  which  you  warn  me.  I  mean 
the  proud,  self-willed,  self-conceited  spirit  which 
made  no  allowance  for  other  men's  weakness  or 
ignorance;  nor  again,  for  their  superior  experi- 
ence and  wisdom  on  points  which  I  had  never 
considered  —  which  took  a  pride  in  shocking  and 
startling,  and  defying,  and  hitting  as  hard  as  I 
could,  and  fancied,  blasphemously,  as  I  think,  that 
the  word  of  God  had  come  to  me  only,  and  went 
out  from  me  only.  God  forgive  me  for  these  sins, 
as  well  as  for  my  sins  in  the  opposite  direction ; 
but  for  these  sins  especially,  because  I  see  them  to 
be  darker  and  more  dangerous  than  the  others. 

"  For  there  has  been  gradually  revealed  to  me 
(what  my  many  readings  in  the  lives  of  fanatics  and 
ascetics  ought  to  have  taught  me  long  before),  that 
there  is  a  terrible  gulf  ahead  of  that  not  caring 


Prefatory  Memoir  ^y 

what  men  say.  Of  course  it  is  a  feeling  on  which 
the  spirit  must  fall  back  in  hours  of  need,  and  cry: 
'  Thou,  God,  knowest  mine  integrity.  I  have  be- 
lieved, and  therefore  I  will  speak;  thou  art  true, 
though  all  men  be  liars ! '  But  I  am  convinced 
that  that  is  a  frame  in  which  no  man  can  live,  or 
is  meant  to  live ;  that  it  is  only  to  be  resorted  to  in 
fear  and  trembling,  after  deepest  self-examination, 
and  self-purification,  and  earnest  prayer.  For 
otherwise,  Ludlow,  a  man  gets  to  forget  that  voice 
of  God  without  him,  in  his  determination  to  listen 
to  nothing  but  the  voice  of  God  within  him,  and  so 
he  falls  into  two  dangers.  He  forgets  that  there  is 
a  voice  of  God  without  him.  He  loses  trust  in,  and 
charity  to,  and  reverence  for  his  fellow-men ;  he 
learns  to  despise,  deny,  and  quench  the  Spirit,  and 
to  despise  prophesyings,  and  so  becomes  gradually 
cynical,  sectarian,  fanatical. 

"  And  then  comes  a  second  and  worse  danger. 
Crushed  into  self,  and  his  own  conscience  and 
schema  mundi,  he  loses  the  opportunity  of  correct- 
ing his  impression  of  the  voice  of  God  within,  by 
the  testimony  of  the  voice  of  God  without;  and  so  he 
begins  to  mistake  more  and  more  the  voice  of  that 
very  flesh  of  his,  which  he  fancies  he  has  con- 
quered, for  the  voice  of  God,  and  to  become,  with- 
out knowing  it,  an  autotheist.  And  out  of  that 
springs  eclecticism,  absence  of  tenderness /^r  men, 
for  want  of  sympathy  with  men ;  as  he  makes  his 
own  conscience  his  standard  for  God,  so  he  makes 
his  own  character  the  standard  for  men ;  and  so  he 
becomes  narrow,  hard,  and  if  he  be  a  man  of  strong 
will  and  feelings,  often  very  inhuman  and  cruel. 
This  is  the  history  of  thousands  —  of  Jeromes, 
Lauds,  Puritans  who  scourged  Quakers,  Quakers 


58  Prefatory  Memoir 

who  cursed  Puritans ;  nonjurors,  who,  though  they 
would  die  rather  than  offend  their  own  conscience 
in  owning  William,  would  plot  with  James  to  mur- 
der William,  or  to  devastate  England  with  Irish 
Rapparees  and  Auvergne  dragoons.  This,  in  fact, 
is  the  spiritual  diagnosis  of  those  many  pious  per- 
secutors, who  though  neither  hypocrites  nor  black- 
guards themselves,  have  used  both  as  instruments 
of  their  fanaticism. 

"  Against  this  I  have  to  guard  myself,  you  little 
know  how  much,  and  to  guard  my  children  still 
more,  brought  up,  as  they  will  be,  under  a  father, 
who,  deeply  discontented  with  the  present  genera- 
tion, cannot  but  express  that  discontent  at  times. 
To  make  my  children  '  banatisoi,'  insolent  and 
scoffing  radicals,  believing  in  nobody  and  nothing 
but  themselves,  would  be  perfectly  easy  in  me  if  I 
were  to  make  the  watchword  of  my  house,  *  Never 
mind  what  people  say.'  On  the  contrary,  I  shall 
teach  them  that  there  are  plenty  of  good  people 
in  the  world  ;  that  public  opinion  has  pretty  surely 
an  undercurrent  of  the  water  of  life,  below  all  its 
froth  and  garbage :  and  that  in  a  Christian  country 
like  this,  where,  with  all  faults,  a  man  (sooner  or 
later)  has  fair  play  and  a  fair  hearing,  the  esteem 
of  good  men,  and  the  blessings  of  the  poor,  will  be 
a  pretty  sure  sign  that  they  have  the  blessing  of 
God  also ;  and  I  shall  tell  them,  when  they  grow 
older,  that  ere  they  feel  called  on  to  become  mar- 
tyrs, in  defending  the  light  within  them  against  all 
the  world,  they  must  first  have  taken  care  most  pa- 
tiently, and  with  all  self-distrust  and  humility  to 
make  full  use  of  the  light  which  is  around  them, 
and  has  been  here  for  ages  before  them,  and  would 
be  here  still,  though  they  had  never  been  born  or 


Prefatory  Memoir  59 

thought  of.  The  antino.my  between  this  and  their 
own  conscience  may  be  painful  enough  to  them 
some  day.  To  what  thinking  man  is  it  not  a  Hfe- 
long  battle  ?  but  I  shall  not  dream  that  by  deny- 
ing one  pole  of  the  antinomy  I  can  solve  it,  or  do 
anything  but  make  them,  by  cynicism  or  fanati- 
cism, bury  their  talent  in  the  earth,  and  not  do  the 
work  which  God  has  given  them  to  do,  because 
they  will  act  like  a  parson  who,  before  beginning 
his  sermon,  should  first  kick  his  congregation  out 
of  doors,  and  turn  the  key ;  and  not  like  St.  Paul, 
who  became  all  things  to  all  men,  if  by  any  means 
he  might  save  some. 

"Yours  ever  affectionately,  with  all  Christmas 
blessings,  C.  KiNGSLEY. 

"  Farly  Court,  December  26,  1855. 

"  I  should  be  very  much  obliged  to  you  to  show 
this  letter  to  Maurice." 

One  more  letter  only  I  will  add,  dated  about  the 
end  of  the  "  Parson  Lot "  period.  He  had  written 
to  inform  me  that  one  of  the  old  Chartist  leaders, 
a  very  worthy  fellow,  was  in  great  distress,  and  to 
ask  me  to  do  what  I  could  for  him.  In  my  reply 
I  had  alluded  somewhat  bitterly  to  the  apparent 
failure  of  the  association  movement  in  London,  and 
to  some  of  our  blunders,  acknowledging  how  he  had 
often  seen  the  weak  places,  and  warned  us  against 
them.     His  answer  came  by  return  of  post: 

"EvERSLEY,  May,  1856. 

"  Dear  Tom  —  It 's  an  ill  bird  that  fouls  its  own 
nest;  and  don't  cry  stinking  fish,  neither  don't 
hollow  till  you  're  out  of  the  wood  —  which  you 


6o  Prefatory  Memoir 

oughtn't  to  have  called  yourself  Tom  fool,  and 
blasphemed  the  holy  name  thereby,  till  you  knowed 
you  was  sich,  which  you  was  n't,  as  appears  by 

particulars.     And  I  have  heard  from  T twice 

to-day,  and  he  is  agreeable,  which,  if  he  was  n't, 
he  is  an  ass,  and  don't  know  half  a  loaf  is  better 
than  no  bread,  and  you  must  n't  look  a  gift  horse 
in  the  mouth,  but  all  is  as  right  as  a  dog-fox  down 
wind  and  vi.  millia  passuum  to  the  next  gorse.  But 
this  £2%  of  his  is  a  grueller,  and  I  learnt  with 
interest  that  you  are  inclined  to  get  the  fish's  nose 
out  of  the  weed.  I  have  offered  to  lend  him  ;^io 
—  hopes  it  may  be  lending  —  and  have  written  a 
desperate  begging  letter  to  R.  Monckton  Milnes, 
Esq.,  which  'evins  prosper.  Poor  T says  to- 
night that  he  has  written  to  Forster  about  it  — 
which  he  must  have  the  small  of  his  back  very 
hard  against  the  ropes  so  to  do,  so  the  sooner  we 
get  the  ginger-beer  bottle  out  the  longer  he  '11 
fight,  or  else  he  '11  throw  up  the  sponge  at  once ; 
for   I   know  his  pride.     I   think  we  can    raise  it 

somehow.    I  have  a  last  card  in  old ,  the  judge 

who  tried  and  condemned  him,  and  is  the  dearest 

old  soul  alive,  only  he  will  have  it  T showed 

dunghill,  and  don't  carry  a  real  game  hackle.  If 
I  am  to  tackle  he  you  must  send  me  back  those 
letters  to  appeal  to  his  piety  and  'joys  as  does 
abound,'  as  your  incomparable  father  remarks. 
When  will  you  give  me  that  canticle?  He  says 
Tom  Taylor  (I  believe  all  the  world  is  called 
Thomas)  has  behaved  to  him  like  a  brother,  which, 
indeed,  was  to  be  expexed,  and  has  promised  him 
copying  at  a  shilling  an  hour,  and  will  give  him  a 
chop  daily  free  gracious ;  but  the  landlord  won't 
wait,  which  we  must  n't  neither. 


Prefatory  Memoir  6 1 

"  Now,  business  afore  pleasure.  You  are  an  old 
darling,  and  who  says  no,  I  'd  kick  him,  if  it  warn't 
for  my  cloth ;  but  you  are  green  in  cottoning  to 
me  about  our  '48  mess.  Because  why?  I  lost 
nothing  —  I  risked  nothing.  You  fellows  worked 
like  bricks,  spent  money,  and  got  midshipman's 
half-pay  (nothing  a-day  and  find  yourself),  and 
monkey's  allowance  (more  kicks  than  halfpence). 
I  risked  no  money ;  'cause  why,  I  had  none ;  but 
made  money  out  of  the  movement,  and  fame  too. 
I  've  often  thought  what  a  dirty  beast  I  was.  I 
made  ;^I50  by  Alton  Locke,  and  never  lost  a 
farthing;  and  I  got,  not  in  spite  of,  but  by  the 
rows,  a  name  and  a  standing  with  many  a  one  who 
would  never  have  heard  of  me  otherwise,  and  I 
should  have  been  a  stercoraceous  mendicant  if  I 
had  hollowed  when  I  got  a  facer,  while  I  was  win- 
ning by  the  cross,  though  I  did  n't  mean  to  fight 
one.  No,  And  if  I'd  had  ;^ioo,ooo,  I'd  have, 
and  should  have,  staked  and  lost  it  all  in  1 848-50. 
I  should,  Tom,  for  my  heart  was  and  is  in  it,  and 
you  '11  see  it  will  beat  yet ;  but  we  ain't  the  boys. 
We  don't  see  but  half  the  bull's  eye  yet,  and  don't 
see  at  all  the  poHceman  which  is  a  going  on  his 
beat  behind  the  bull's  eye,  and  no  thanks  to  us. 
Still  some  somedever,  it 's  in  the  fates,  that  asso- 
ciation is  the  pure  caseine,  and  must  be  eaten  by 
the  human  race  if  it  would  save  its  soul  alive, 
which,  indeed,  it  will ;  only  don't  you  think  me  a 
good  fellow  for  not  crying  out,  when  I  never  had 
more  to  do  than  scratch  myself  and  away  went 
the  fleas.  But  you  all  were  real  bricks;  and  if 
you  were  riled,  why  let  him  that  is  without  sin 
cast  the  first  stone,  or  let  me  cast  it  for  him,  and 
see  if  I  don't  hit  him  in  the  eye. 


62  Prefatory  Memoir 

'*  Now  to  business ;  I  have  had  a  sorter  kinder 
sample  day.  Up  at  5,  to  see  a  dying  man;  ought 
to  have  been  up  at  2,  but  Ben  King  the  rat-catcher, 
who  came  to  call  me,  was  taken  nervous !  !  !  and 
didn't  make  row  enough;  was  from  5.30  to  6.30 
with  the  most  dreadful  case  of  agony  —  insensible 
to  me,  but  not  to  his  pain.  Came  home,  got  a 
wash  and  a  pipe,  and  again  to  him  at  8.  Found 
him  insensible  to  his  own  pain,  with  dilated  pupils, 
dying  of  pressure  of  the  brain  —  going  any  moment. 
Prayed  the  commendatory  prayers  over  him,  and 
started  for  the  river  with  West.  Fished  all  the 
morning  in  a  roaring  N.  E.  gale,  with  the  dreadful 
agonized  face  between  me  and  the  river,  pondering 
on  THE  mystery.  Killed  eight  on  '  March  brown' 
and  '  governor,'  by  drowning  the  flies,  and  taking 
'em  out  gently  to  see  if  aught  was  there  —  which  is 
the  only  dodge  in  a  north-easter.  'Cause  why? 
The  water  is  warmer  than  the  air — ergo,  fishes 
don't  Hke  to  put  their  noses  out  o'  doors,  and  feeds 
at  home  downstairs.  It  is  the  only  wrinkle,  Tom. 
The  captain  fished  a-top,  and  caught  but  three 
all  day.  They  were  n't  going  to  catch  a  cold  in 
their  heads  to  please  him  or  any  man.  Clouds 
burn  up  at  i  P.  M.  I  put  on  a  minnow,  and  kill 
three  more ;  I  should  have  had  lots,  but  for  the 
image  of  the  dirty  hickory  stick,  which  would 
'  walk  the  waters  like  a  thing  of  life,'  just  ahead  of 
my  minnow.  Mem.  —  Never  fish  with  the  sun  in 
your  back;  it's  bad  enough  with  a  fly,  but  with 
a  minnow  it 's  strychnine  and  prussic  acid.  My 
eleven  weighed  together  four  and  a  half  pounds  — 
three  to  the  pound ;  not  good  considering  I  had 
passed  many  a  two-pound  fish,  I  know. 

"  Corollary.  —  Brass  minnow  don't  suit  the  water. 


Prefatory  Memoir  63 

Where  is  your  wonderful  minnow?  Send  him  me 
down,  or  else  a  horn  one,  which  I  believes  in  des- 
perate ;  but  send  me  something  before  Tuesday, 
and  I  will  send  you  P.O.O.  Horn  minnow  looks 
like  a  gudgeon,  which  is  the  pure  caseine.  One 
pounder  I  caught  to-day  on  the  '  March  brown ' 
womited  his  wittles,  which  was  rude,  but  instruc- 
tive ;  and  among  worms  was  a  gudgeon  three 
inches  long  and  more.  Blow  minnows  —  gudgeon 
is  the  thing. 

"  Came  off  the  water  at  3.  Found  my  man 
alive,  and,  thank  God,  quiet.  Sat  with  him,  and 
thought  him  going  once  or  twice.  What  a  mystery 
that  long,  insensible  death-struggle  is  1  Why 
should  they  be  so  long  about  it !  Then  had  to  go 
Hartley  Row  for  an  Archdeacon's  Sunday-school 
meeting  —  three  hours'  useless  (I  fear)  speechify- 
ing and  *  shop ' ;  but  the  Archdeacon  is  a  good 
man,  and  works  like  a  brick  beyond  his  office. 
Got  back  at  10.30,  and  sit  writing  to  you.  So 
goes  one's  day.  All  manner  of  incongruous  things 
to  do  —  and  the  very  incongruity  keeps  one  beany 
and  jolly.  Your  letter  was  delightful.  I  read  part 
of  it  to  West,  who  says,  you  are  the  best  fellow  on 
earth,  to  which  I  agree. 

"  So  no  more  from  your  sleepy  and  tired  — 

"C.   KiNGSLEY." 

This  was  almost  the  last  letter  I  ever  received 
from  him  in  the  Parson  Lot  period  of  his  life  with 
which  alone  this  notice  has  to  do.  It  shows,  I  think, 
very  clearly  that  it  was  not  that  he  had  deserted  his 
flag  (as  has  been  said)  or  changed  his  mind  about 
the  cause  for  which  he  had  fought  so  hard  and  so 
well.    His  heart  was  in  it  still  as  warmly  as  ever,  as 


64  Prefatory  Memoir 

he  says  himself.  But  the  battle  had  rolled  away  to 
another  part  of  the  field.  Almost  all  that  Parson 
Lot  had  ever  striven  for  was  already  gained.  The 
working  classes  had  already  got  statutory  protec- 
tion for  their  trade  associations,  and  their  unions, 
though  still  outside  the  law,  had  become  strong 
enough  to  fight  their  own  battles.  And  so  he  laid 
aside  his  fighting  name  and  his  fighting  pen,  and 
had  leisure  to  look  calmly  on  the  great  struggle 
more  as  a  spectator  than  an  actor. 

A  few  months  later,  in  the  summer  of  1856, 
when  he  and  I  were  talking  over  and  preparing  for 
a  week's  fishing  in  the  streams  and  lakes  of  his 
favorite  Snowdonia,  he  spoke  long  and  earnestly 
in  the  same  key.  I  well  remember  how  he  wound 
it  all  up  with,  "  The  long  and  short  of  it  is,  I  am 
becoming  an  optimist.  All  men,  worth  anything, 
old  men  especially,  have  strong  fits  of  optimism  — 
even  Carlyle  has  —  because  they  can't  help  hoping, 
and  sometimes  feeling,  that  the  world  is  going 
right,  and  will  go  right,  not  your  way,  or  my  way, 
but  its  own  way.  Yes ;  we  've  all  tried  our  Hollo- 
way's  Pills,  Tom,  to  cure  all  the  ills  of  all  the  world 
—  and  we  've  all  found  out  I  hope  by  this  time  that 
the  tough  old  world  has  more  in  its  inside  than  any 
Holloway's  Pills  will  clear  out."  A  few  weeks  later 
I  received  the  following  invitation  to  Snowdon,  and 
to  Snowdon  we  went  in  the  autumn  of  1856. 


THE  INVITATION. 

Come  away  with  me,  Tom, 
Term  and  talk  is  done ; 
My  poor  lads  are  reaping, 
Busy  every  one. 


Prefatory  Memoir  6^ 


Curates  mind  the  parish, 
Sweepers  mind  the  Court, 
We  '11  away  to  Snowdon 
For  our  ten  days'  sport, 
Fish  the  August  evening 
Till  the  eve  is  past, 
Whoop  like  boys  at  pounders 
Fairly  played  and  grassed. 
When  they  cease  to  dimple, 
Lunge,  and  swerve,  and  leap, 
Then  up  over  Siabod 
Choose  our  nest,  and  sleep. 
Up  a  thousand  feet,  Tom, 
Round  the  lion's  head, 
Find  soft  stones  to  leeward 
And  make  up  our  bed. 
Eat  our  bread  and  bacon, 
Smoke  the  pipe  of  peace, 
And,  ere  we  be  drowsy. 
Give  our  boots  a  grease. 
Homer's  heroes  did  so. 
Why  not  such  as  we  ? 
What  are  sheets  and  servants? 
Superfluity. 

Pray  for  wives  and  children 
Safe  in  slumber  curled, 
Then  to  chat  till  midnight 
O'er  this  babbling  world. 
Of  the  workmen's  college, 
Of  the  price  of  grain. 
Of  the  tree  of  knowledge. 
Of  the  chance  of  rain; 
If  Sir  A.  goes  Romeward, 
If  Miss  B.  sings  true. 
If  the  fleet  comes  homeward, 
If  the  mare  will  do,  — 
Anything  and  everything  — 
Up  there  in  the  sky 
Angels  understand  us, 
And  no  "satn/s  "  are  by. 
Down,  and  bathe  at  day-dawn, 
Tramp  from  lake  to  lake, 


Vol.  lir— 4 


66  Prefatory  Memoir 


Washing  brain  and  heart  clean 
Every  step  we  take. 
Leave  to  Robert  Browning 
Beggars,  fleas,  and  vines ; 
Leave  to  mournful  Ruskin 
Popish  Apennines, 
Dirty  Stones  of  Venice 
And  his  Gas-lamps  Seven  ; 
We  've  the  stones  of  Snowdon 
And  the  lamps  of  heaven. 
Where 's  the  mighty  credit 
In  admiring  Alps  ? 
Any  goose  sees  "  glory  '* 
In  their  "  snowy  scalps." 
Leave  such  signs  and  wonders 
For  the  dullard  brain, 
As  aesthetic  brandy, 
Opium  and  cayenne  ; 
Give  me  Bramshill  common 
(St.  John's  harriers  by), 
Or  the  vale  of  Windsor, 
England's  golden  eye. 
Show  me  life  and  progress, 
Beauty,  health,  and  man  ; 
Houses  fair,  trim  gardens, 
Turn  where'er  I  can. 
Or,  if  bored  with  •'  High  Art, 
And  such  popish  stuff, 
One's  poor  ears  need  airing, 
Snowdon  's  high  enough, 
While  we  find  God's  signet 
Fresh  on  English  ground, 
Why  go  gallivanting 
With  the  nations  round  ? 
Though  we  try  no  ventures 
Desperate  or  strange ; 
Feed  on  commonplaces 
In  a  narrow  range  ; 
Never  sought  for  Franklin 
Round  the  frozen  Capes ; 
Even,  with  Macdougall, 
Bagged  our  brace  of  apes ; 


Prefatory  Memoir  67 


Never  had  our  chance,  Tom, 

In  that  black  Redan  ; 

Can't  avenge  poor  Brereton 

Out  in  Sakarran ; 

Tho'  we  earn  our  bread,  Tom, 

By  the  dirty  pen, 

What  we  can  we  will  be, 

Honest  Englishmen. 

Do  the  work  that 's  nearest, 

Though  it's  dull  at  whiles; 

Helping,  when  we  meet  them, 

Lame  dogs  over  stiles  ; 

See  in  every  hedgerow 

Marks  of  angels'  feet, 

Epics  in  each  pebble 

Underneath  our  feet ; 

Once  a-year,  like  schoolboys 

Robin-Hooding  go, 

Leaving  fops  and  fogies 

A  thousand  feet  below. 


THOMAS   HUGHES. 


CHEAP  CLOTHES  AND  NASTY 


1 


KING  RYENCE,  says  the  legend  of  Prince 
Arthur,  wore  a  paletot  trimmed  with  kings' 
beards.  In  the  first  French  Revolution  (so  Carlyle 
assures  us)  there  were  at  Meudon  tanneries  of 
human  skins.  Mammon,  at  once  tyrant  and  revo- 
lutionary, follows  both  these  noble  examples  —  in 
a  more  respectable  way,  doubtless,  for  Mammon 
hates  cruelty ;  bodily  pain  is  his  devil  —  the  worst 
evil  which  he,  in  his  effeminacy,  can  conceive.  So 
he  shrieks  benevolently  when  a  drunken  soldier  is 
flogged ;  but  he  trims  his  paletots,  and  adorns  his 
legs,  with  the  flesh  of  men  and  the  skins  of  women, 
with  degradation,  pestilence,  heathendom,  and  de- 
spair ;  and  then  chuckles  self-complacently  over 
the  smallness  of  his  tailors'  bills.  Hypocrite !  — 
straining  at  a  gnat  and  swallowing  a  camel !  What 
is  flogging,  or  hanging,  King  Ryence's  paletot  or 
the  tanneries  of  Meudon,  to  the  slavery,  starvation, 
waste  of  life,  year-long  imprisonment  in  dungeons 
narrower  and  fouler  than  those  of  the  Inquisition, 
which  goes  on  among  thousands  of  free  English 
clothes-makers  at  this  day? 

"  The    man    is   mad,"    says    Mammon,   smiling 
supercihous   pity.     Yes,  Mammon;    mad  as  Paul 


70  Cheap  Clothes  and  Nasty 

before  Festus;  and  for  much  the  same  reason, 
too.  Much  learning  has  made  us  mad.  From 
two  articles  in  the  "  Morning  Chronicle  "  of  Fri- 
day, 14th  December,  and  Tuesday,  i8th  Decem- 
ber, on  the  Condition  of  the  Working  Tailors,  we 
learnt  too  much  to  leave  us  altogether  masters  of 
ourselves.  But  there  is  method  in  our  madness; 
we  can  give  reasons  for  it  —  satisfactory  to  our- 
selves, perhaps  also  to  Him  who  made  us,  and  you, 
and  all  tailors  likewise.  Will  you,  freshly  bediz- 
ened, you  and  your  footmen,  from  Nebuchadnezzar 
and  Co.'s  "  Emporium  of  Fashion,"  hear  a  little 
about  how  your  finery  is  made?  You  are  always 
calling  out  for  facts,  and  have  a  firm  belief  in  sal- 
vation by  statistfcs.     Listen  to  a  few. 

The  metropolitan  commissioner  of  the  "  Morn- 
ing Chronicle  "  called  two  meetings  of  the  work- 
ing tailors,  one  in  Shadwell,  and  the  other  at  the 
Hanover  Square  rooms,  in  order  to  ascertain  their 
condition  from  their  own  lips.  Both  meetings 
were  crowded.  At  the  Hanover  Square  rooms 
there  were  more  than  one  thousand  men ;  they  were 
altogether  unanimous  in  their  descriptions  of  the 
misery  and  slavery  which  they  endured.  It  ap- 
pears that  there  are  two  distinct  tailor  trades  — 
the  "  honorable  "  trade,  now  almost  confined  to  the 
West  End,  and  rapidly  dying  out  there,  and  the 
"  dishonorable  "  trade  of  the  show-shops  and  slop- 
shops—  the  plate-glass  palaces,  where  gents  — 
and,  alas !  those  who  would  be  indignant  at  that 
name  —  buy  their  cheap-and-nasty  clothes.  The 
two  names  are  the  tailors'  own  slang ;  slang  is  true 
and  expressive  enough,  though,  now  and  then. 
The  honorable  shops  in  the  West  End  number 
only  sixty;  the   dishonorable,  four  hundred   and 


y 


Cheap  Clothes  and  Nasty  71 

more;  while  at  the  East  End  the  dishonorable 
trade  has  it  all  its  own  way.  The  honorable  part 
of  the  trade  is  declining  at  the  rate  of  one  hundreq 
and  fifty  journeymen  per  year;  the  dishonorably 
increasing  at  such  a  rate  that  in  twenty  years  it 
will  have  absorbed  the  whole  tailoring  trade,  which 
employs  upwards  of  twenty-one  thousand  journey- 
men. At  the  honorable  shops  the  work  is  done, 
as  it  was  universally  thirty  years  ago,  on  the  prem- 
ises and  at  good  wages.p?  In  the  dishonorable 
trade  the  work  is  taken  home  by  the  men,  to  be 
done  at  the  very  lowest  possible  prices,  which  de- 
crease year  by  year,  almost  month  by  month.  At 
the  honorable  shops,  from  36^.  to  24J.  is  paid  for  a 
piece  of  work  for  which  the  dishonorable  shop  pays 
from  22s.  to  9^.  But  not  to  the  workman ;  happy 
is  he  if  he  really  gets  two-thirds,  or  half  of  that. 
For  at  the  honorable  shops,  the  master  deals 
directly  with  his  workmen  ;~;while  at  the  dishonor- 
able ones,  the  greater  part  of  the  work,  if  not  the 
whole,  is  let  out  to  contractors,  or  middle-men  — 
" sweaters"  as  their  victims  significantly  call  them 
—  who,  in  their  turn,  let  it  out  again,  sometimes  to 
the  workmen,  sometimes  to  fresh  middle-men ;  so 
that  out  of  the  price  for  labor  on  each  article,  not 
only  the  workmen,  but  the  sweater,  and  perhaps 
the  sweater's  sweater,  and  a  third,  and  a  fourth,  and 
a  fifth,  have  to  draw  their  profit.  And  when  the 
labor  price  has  been  already  beaten  down  to  the 
lowest  possible,  how  much  remains  for  the  work- 
men after  all  these  deductions,  let  the  poor  fellows 
themselves  say ! 

One  working  tailor  (at  the  Hanover  Square 
Rooms  Meeting)  "  mentioned  a  number  of  shops, 
both  at  the  East  and  West  ends,  whose  work  was 


72  Cheap  Clothes  and  Nasty 

all  taken  by  sweaters ;  and  several  of  these  shops 
were  under  royal  and  noble  patronage.  There  was 
one  notorious  sweater  who  kept  his  carriage.  He 
was  a  Jew,  and,  of  course,  he  gave  a  preference  to 
his  own  sect.  Thus,  another  Jew  received  it  from 
him  second  hand  and  at  a  lower  rate ;  then  it  went 
to  a  third  —  till  it  came  to  the  unfortunate  Christian 
at  perhaps  the  eighth  rate,  and  he  performed  the 
work  at  barely  living  prices;  this  same  Jew  re- 
quired a  deposit  of  £$  in  money  before  he  would 
give  out  a  single  garment  to  be  made.  He  need 
not  describe  the  misery  which  this  system  entailed 
upon  the  workmen.  It  was  well  known,  but  it  was 
almost  impossible,  except  for  those  who  had  been 
at  the  two,  to  form  an  idea  of  the  difference  be- 
tween the  present  meeting  and  one  at  the  East  End, 
where  all  who  attended  worked  for  slop-shops  and 
sweaters.  The  present  was  a  highly  respectable 
assembly;  the  other  presented  no  other  appear- 
ance but  those  of  misery  and  degradation." 

Another  says  :  "  We  have  all  worked  in  the 
honorable  trade,  so  we  know  the  regular  prices 
from  our  own  personal  experience.  Taking  the 
bad  work  with  the  good  work,  we  might  earn  i  i.f. 
a  week  upon  an  average.  Sometimes  we  do  earn 
as  much  as  i$s. ;  but,  to  do  this,  we  are  obliged  to 
take  part  of  our  work  home  to  our  wives  and 
daughters.  We  are  not  always  fully  employed. 
We  are  nearly  half  our  time  idle.  Hence  our 
earnings  are,  upon  an  average  throughout  the  year, 
not  more  than  5^.  6d.  a  week."  "  Very  often  I  have 
made  only  3^.  4d.  in  the  week,"  said  one.  "  That's 
common  enough  with  us  all,  I  can  assure  you," 
said  another.  "Last  week  my  wages  was  ys.  6d.,'' 
declared  one.     "  I  earned  6s.  4^.,"  exclaimed  the 


Cheap  Clothes  and  Nasty  73 

second.  "  My  wages  came  to  9^.  2d.  The  week 
before  I  got  6s.  T,d."  "  I  made  ys.  gd.,*'  and  "  I  ys. 
or  Ss.,  I  can't  exactly  remember  which."  "  This  is 
what  we  term  the  best  part  of  our  winter  season. 
The  reason  why  we  are  so  long  idle  is  because 
more  hands  than  are  wanted  are  kept  on  the 
premises,  so  that  in  case  of  a  press  of  work  coming 
in,  our  employers  can  have  it  done  immediately. 
Under  the  day  work  system  no  master  tailor  had 
more  men  on  the  premises  than  he  could  keep 
continually  going;  but  since  the  change  to  the 
piece-work  system,  masters  made  a  practice  of 
engaging  double  the  quantity  of  hands  that  they 
have  any  need  for,  so  that  an  order  may  be  exe- 
cuted '  at  the  shortest  possible  notice,'  if  requisite. 
A  man  must  not  leave  the  premises  when  unem- 
ployed,—  if  he  does,  he  loses  his  chance  of  work 
coming  in.  I  have  been  there  four  days  together, 
and  had  not  a  stitch  of  work  to  do."  "  Yes ;  that 
is  common  enough."  "  Ay,  and  then  you  're  told, 
if  you  complain,  you  can  go,  if  you  don't  like  it. 
I  am  sure  twelve  hands  would  do  all  they  have 
done  at  home,  and  yet  they  keep  forty  of  us.  It 's 
generally  remarked  that,  however  strong  and 
healthy  a  man  may  be  when  he  goes  to  work  at 
that  shop,  in  a  month's  time  he  '11  be  a  complete 
shadow,  and  have  almost  all  his  clothes  in  pawn. 
By  Sunday  morning,  he  has  no  money  at  all  left, 
and  he  has  to  subsist  till  the  following  Saturday 
upon  about  a  pint  of  weak  tea,  and  four  slices  of 
bread  and  butter  per  day !  !  !  " 

"  Another  of  the  reasons  for  the  sweaters  keep- 
ing more  hands  than  they  want  is,  the  men  gener- 
ally have  their  meals  with  them.  The  more  men 
they  have  with  them  the  more  breakfasts  and  teas 


74  Cheap  Clothes  and  Nasty 

they  supply,  and  the  more  profit  they  make.  The 
men  usually  have  to  pay  4^.,  and  very  often  $d. 
for  their  breakfast,  and  the  same  for  their  tea. 
The  tea  or  breakfast  is  mostly  a  pint  of  tea  or 
coffee,  and  three  to  four  slices  of  bread  and  butter. 
/  ivorked  for  one  sweater  who  almost  starved  the 
men  ;  the  smallest  eater  there  would  not  have  had 
enough  if  he  had  got  three  times  as  much.  They 
had  only  three  thin  slices  of  bread  and  butter,  not 
sufficient  for  a  child,  and  the  tea  was  both  weak  and 
bad.  The  whole  tneal  could  not  have  stood  him  in 
2d.  a  head,  and  what  made  it  worse  was,  that  the 
mejt  who  worked  there  couldn't  afford  to  have 
dinners,  so  that  they  were  starved  to  the  bone.  The 
sweater's  men  generally  lodge  where  they  work. 
A  sweater  usually  keeps  about  six  men.  These 
occupy  two  small  garrets ;  one  room  is  called  the 
kitchen,  and  the  other  the  workshop ;  and  here  the 
whole  of  the  six  men,  and  the  sweater,  his  wife,  and 
family,  live  and  sleep.  One  sweater  /  worked  with 
had  four  children  and  six  men^  and  they,  together 
with  his  wife,  sister-in-law,  and  himself,  all  lived 
in  two  rooms,  the  largest  of  which  was  about  eight 
feet  by  ten.  We  worked  in  the  smallest  room  and 
slept  there  as  well  —  all  six  of  us.  There  were  two 
turn-up  beds  in  it,  and  we  slept  three  in  a  bed. 
There  was  no  chimney,  and,  indeed,  no  ventilation 
whatever.  J  was  near  losing  my  life  there  —  the 
foul  air  of  so  many  people  working  all  day  in  the 
place,  and  sleeping  there  at  night,  was  quite  suffocat- 
ing. Almost  all  the  men  were  consumptive,  and  I 
myself  attended  the  dispensary  for  disease  of  the 
lungs.  The  room  in  which  we  all  slept  was  not 
more  than  six  feet  square.  We  were  all  sick  and 
weak,  and  loath  to  work.     Each  of  the  six  of  us  paid 


Cheap  Clothes  and  Nasty  75 

2s.  6d.  a  week  for  our  lodging,  or  15^.  altogether, 
and  I  am  sure  such  a  room  as  we  slept  and  worked 
in  might  be  had  for  is.  a  week ;  you  can  get  a 
room  with  a  fireplace  for  is.  6d.  a  week.  The 
usual  sum  that  the  men  working  for  sweaters  pay 
for  their  tea,  breakfasts,  and  lodging  is  6s.  6d.  to  ys. 
a  week,  and  they  seldom  earn  more  money  in  the 
week.  Occasionally  at  the  week's  end  they  are  in 
debt  to  the  sweater.  This  is  seldom  for  more  than 
6d.,  for  the  sweater  will  not  give  them  victuals  if  he 
has  no  work  for  them  to  do.  Many  who  live  and 
work  at  the  sweater's  are  married  men,  and  are 
obliged  to  keep  their  wives  and  children  in  lodg- 
ings by  themselves.  Some  send  them  to  the  work- 
house, others  to  their  friends  in  the  country. 
Besides  the  profit  of  the  board  and  lodging,  the 
sweater  takes  6d.  out  of  the  price  paid  for  every 
garment  under  los. ;  some  take  15.,  and  I  do  know 
of  one  who  takes  as  much  as  2s.  This  man  works 
for  a  large  show-shop  at  the  West  End.  The  usual 
profit  of  the  sweater,  over  and  above  the  board 
and  lodging,  is  2s.  out  of  every  pound.  Those 
who  work  for  sweaters  soon  lose  their  clothes,  and 
are  unable  to  seek  for  other  work,  because  they 
have  not  a  coat  to  their  back  to  go  and  seek  it  in. 
Lasi  week,  I  worked  with  another  man  at  a  coat  for 
one  of  her  Majesty  s  ministers,  and  my  partner  never 
broke  his  fast  while,  he  was  making  his  half  of  it 
The  minister  dealt  at  a  cheap  West  End  show-shop. 
All  the  workman  had  the  whole  day  and  a  half  he 
was  making  the  coat  was  a  little  tea.  But  sweaters* 
work  is  not  so  bad  as  Government  work  after  all. 
At  that,  we  cannot  make  more  than  4J.  or  55.  a 
week  altogether  —  that  is,  counting  the  time  we 
are  running  after   it,  of  course.     Government  con- 


76  Cheap  Clothes  and  Nasty 

tract  work  is  the  worst  of  all,  and  the  starved-out 
and  sweated-out  tailor's  last  resource.  But  still, 
Government  does  not  do  the  regular  trade  so  much 
harm  as  the  cheap  show  and  slop-shops.  These 
houses  have  ruined  thousands.  They  have  cut 
down  the  prices,  so  that  men  cannot  live  at  the 
work;  and  the  masters  who  did  and  would  pay 
better  wages,  are  reducing  the  workmen's  pay 
every  day.  They  say  they  must  either  compete 
with  the  large  show-shops  or  go  into  the  Gazette." 

Sweet  competition  !  Heavenly  maid  !  —  Now- 
adays hymned  alike  by  penny-a-liners  and  philoso- 
phers as  the  ground  of  all  society  —  the  only  real 
preserver  of  the  earth !  Why  not  of  heaven,  too? 
Perhaps  there  is  competition  among  the  angels, 
and  Gabriel  and  Raphael  have  won  their  rank  by 
doing  the  maximum  of  worship  on  the  minimum 
of  grace?  We  shall  know  some  day.  In  the 
meanwhile,  "  these  are  thy  works,  thou  parent  of 
all  good !  "  Man  eating  man,  eaten  by  man,  in 
every  variety  of  degree  and  method  !  Why  does  not 
some  enthusiastic  political  economist  write  an  epic 
on  "  The  Consecration  of  Cannibalism  "  ? 

But  if  any  one  finds  it  pleasant  to  his  soul  to 
believe  the  poor  journeymen's  statements  exag- 
gerated, let  him  listen  to  one  of  the  sweaters 
themselves : 

"  I  wish,"  says  he,  "  that  others  did  for  the  men 
as  decently  as  I  do.  I  know  there  are  many  who 
are  living  entirely  upon  them.  Some  employ  as 
many  as  fourteen  men.  I  myself  worked  in  the 
house  of  a  man  who  did  this.  The  chief  part  of 
us  lived,  and  worked,  and  slept  together  in  two 
rooms,  on  the  second  floor.  They  charged  2s.  6d. 
per  head  for  the  lodging  alone.     Twelve  of  the 


Cheap  Clothes  and  Nasty  'jj 

workmen,  I  am  sure,  lodged  in  the  house,  and  these 
paid  altogether  30^.  a  week  rent  to  the  sweater.  I 
should  think  the  sweater  paid  %s.  a  week  for  the 
rooms —  so  that  he  gained  at  least  22s.  clear  out  of 
the  lodging  of  these  men,  and  stood  at  no  rent 
himself  For  the  living  of  the  men  he  charged  — 
5^.  for  breakfasts,  and  the  same  for  teas,  and  %d. 
for  dinner  —  or  at  the  rate  of  \os.  6d.  each  per 
head.  Taking  one  with  the  other,  and  considering 
the  manner  in  which  they  lived,  I  am  certain  that 
the  cost  for  keeping  each  of  them  could  not  have 
been  more  than  ^s.  This  would  leave  $s.  6d.  clear 
profit  on  the  board  of  each  of  the  twelve  men,  or, 
altogether,  £t,  6s.  per  week;  and  this,  added  to 
the  £1  2s.  profit  on  the  rent,  would  give  £4  Ss. 
for  the  sweater's  gross  profit  on  the  board  and 
lodging  of  the  workmen  in  his  place.  But,  besides 
this,  he  got  is.  out  of  each  coat  made  on  his  prem- 
ises, and  there  were  twenty-one  coats  made  there, 
upon  an  average,  every  week;  so  that,  altogether, 
the  sweater's  clear  gains  out  of  the  men  were  ;^5 
9^.  every  week.  Each  man  made  about  a  coat  and 
a  half  in  the  course  of  the  seven  days  {/or  they  all 
worked  on  a  Stinday  —  they  were  generally  told  to 
*  borrow  a  day  off  the  Lord'  ).  For  this  coat  and 
a  half  each  hand  got  £\'.  2:6,  and  out  of  it  he  had 
to  pay  135.  for  board  and  lodging;  so  that  there 
was  9^.  6d.  clear  left.  These  are  the  profits  of  the 
sweater,  and  the  earnings  of  the  men  engaged  under 
him,  when  working  for  the  first-rate  houses.  But 
many  of  the  cheap  houses  pay  as  low  as  %s.  for  the 
making  of  each  dress  and  frock  coat,  and  some  of 
them  as  low  as  6s.  Hence  the  earnings  of  the  men 
at  such  work  would  be  from  9^.  to  12s.  per  week, 
and  the  cost  of  their  board  and  lodging  without 


78  Cheap  Clothes  and  Nasty 

dinners,  for  these  they  seldom  have,  would  be 
from  'js.  6d.  to  8j.  per  week.  Indeed,  the  men 
working  under  sweaters  at  such  prices  generally 
consider  themselves  well  off  if  they  have  a  shilling 
or  two  in  their  pockets  for  Sunday.  The  profits  of 
the  sweater,  however,  would  be  from  £4  to  £$  out 
of  twelve  men,  working  on  his  premises.  The 
usual  number  of  men  working  under  each  sweater 
is  about  six  individuals;  and  the  average  rate  of 
profit  about  £2  lOs.,  without  the  sweater  doing  any 
work  himself.  It  is  very  often  the  case  that  a  man 
working  under  a  sweater  is  obliged  to  pawn  his 
own  coat  to  get  any  pocket-money  that  he  may 
require.  Over  and  over  again  the  sweater  makes 
out  that  he  is  in  his  debt  from  i^.  to  2s.  at  the  end 
of  the  week,  and  when  the  man's  coat  is  in  pledge,  he 
is  compelled  to  remain  imprisoned  in  the  sweater's 
lodgings  for  months  together.  In  some  sweating 
places,  there  is  an  old  coat  kept  called  a  '  reliever,' 
and  this  is  borrowed  by  such  men  as  have  none  of 
their  own  to  go  out  in.  There  are  very  few  of  the . 
sweaters'  men  who  have  a  coat  to  their  backs  or  a 
shoe  to  their  feet  to  come  out  into  the  streets  on 
Sunday.  Down  about  Fulwood's  Rents,  Holborn, 
I  am  sure  I  would  not  give  6d.  for  the  clothes  that 
are  on  a  dozen  of  them ;  and  it  is  surprising  to  me, 
working  and  living  together  in  such  numbers  and 
in  such  small  close  rooms,  in  narrow  close  back 
courts  as  they  do,  that  they  are  not  all  swept  off  by 
some  pestilence.  I  myself  have  seen  half  a  dozen 
men  at  work  in  a  room  that  was  a  little  better  than 
a  bedstead  long.  It  was  as  much  as  one  could  do 
to  move  between  the  wall  and  the  bedstead  when  it 
was  down.  There  were  two  bedsteads  in  this  room, 
and  they  nearly  filled  the  place  when  they  were 


Cheap  Clothes  and  Nasty  79 

down.  The  ceiling  was  so  low,  that  I  could  n't 
stand  upright  in  the  room.  There  was  no  ventila- 
tion in  the  place.  There  was  no  fireplace,  and 
only  a  small  window.  When  the  window  was 
open,  you  could  nearly  touch  the  houses  at  the 
back,  and  if  the  room  had  not  been  at  the  top  of 
the  house,  the  men  could  not  have  s.een  at  all  in 
the  place.  The  staircase  was  so  narrow,  steep, 
and  dark,  that  it  was  difficult  to  grope  your  way 
to  the  top  of  the  house  —  it  was  like  going  up 
a  steeple.  This  is  the  usual  kind  of  place,  in 
which  the  sweaters'  men  are  lodged.  The  reason 
why  there  are  so  many  Irishmen  working  for  the 
sweaters  is,  because  they  are  seduced  over  to  this 
country  by  the  prospect  of  high  wages  and  plenty 
of  work.  They  are  brought  over  by  the  Cork 
boats  at  los.  a  head,  and  when  they  once  get  here, 
the  prices  they  receive  are  so  small,  that  they  are 
unable  to  go  back.  In  less  than  a  week  after 
they  get  here,  their  clothes  are  all  pledged,  and 
they  are  obliged  to  continue  working  under  the 
sweaters. 

"  The  extent  to  which  this  system  of  '  street 
kidnapping '  is  carried  on  is  frightful.  Young 
tailors,  fresh  from  the  country,  are  decoyed  by  the 
sweaters'  wives  into  their  miserable  dens,  under 
extravagant  promises  of  employment,  to  find 
themselves  deceived,  imprisoned,  and  starved,  often 
unable  to  make  their  escape  for  months — perhaps 
years;  and  then  only  fleeing  from  one  dungeon  to 
another  as  abominable." 

In  the  meantime,  the  profits  of  the  beasts  of 
prey  who  live  on  these  poor  fellows  —  both  mas- 
ters and  sweaters  —  seem  as  prodigious  as  their 
cruelty. 


8o  Cheap  Clothes  and  Nasty 

Hear  another  working  tailor  on  this  point: 
"In  1844  I  belonged  to  the  honorable  part  of  the 
trade.  Our  house  of  call  supplied  the  present 
show-shop  with  men  to  work  on  the  premises. 
The  prices  then  paid  were  at  the  rate  of  6d.  per 
hour.  For  the  same  driving  capes  that  they  paid 
185.  then,  they  give  only  \2s.  for  now.  For  the 
dress  and  frock  coats  they  gave  155.  then,  and  now 
they  are  i^y.  The  paletots  and  shooting  coats 
were  \2s. ;  there  was  no  coat  made  on  the  premises 
under  that  sum.  At  the  end  of  the  season,  they 
wanted  to  reduce  the  paletots  to  9^.  The  men  re- 
fused to  make  them  at  that  price,  when  other 
houses  were  paying  as  much  as  \^s.  for  them. 
The  consequence  of  this  was,  the  house  discharged 
all  the  men,  and  got  a  Jew  middle-man  from  the 
neighborhood  of  Petticoat  Lane,  to  agree  to  do 
them  all  at  75.  6d.  a  piece.  The  Jew  employed  all 
the  poor  people  who  were  at  work  for  the  slop 
warehouses  in  Houndsditch  and  its  vicinity.  This 
Jew  makes  on  an  average  500  paletots  a  week. 
The  Jew  gets  2s.  6d.  profit  out  of  each,  and  having 
no  sewing  trimmings  allowed  to  him,  he  makes  the 
work-people  find  them.  The  saving  in  trimmings 
alone  to  the  firm,  since  the  workmen  left  the 
premises,  must  have  realized  a  small  fortune  to 
them.  Calculating  men,  women,  and  children,  I 
have  heard  it  said  that  the  cheap  house  at  the 
West  End  employs  1000  hands.  The  trimmings 
for  the  work  done  by  these  would  be  about  6d,  a 
week  per  head,  so  that  the  saving  to  the  house 
since  the  men  worked  on  the  premises  has  been  no 
less  than  ;^I300  a  year,  and  all  this  taken  out  of 
the  pockets  of  the  poor.  The  Jew  who  contracts 
for  making  the  paletots  is  no  tailor  at  all.     A  few 


Cheap  Clothes  and  Nasty  8i 

years  ago  he  sold  sponges  in  the  street,  and  now 
he  rides  in  his  carriage.  The  Jew's  profits  are 
500  half-crowns,  or  £60  odd,  per  week  —  that  is 
upwards  of  ;^3000  a  year.  Women  are  mostly 
engaged  at  the  paletot  work.  When  I  came  to 
work  for  the  cheap  show-shop  I  had  £s  los.  in  the 
saving  bank;  now  I  have  not  a  halfpenny  in  it. 
All  I  had  saved  went  little  by  little  to  keep  me  and 
my  family.  I  have  always  made  a  point  of  putting 
some  money  by  when  I  could  afford  it,  but  since  I 
have  been  at  this  work  it  has  been  as  much  as  I 
could  do  to  live,  much  more  to  save.  One  of  the 
firm  for  which  I  work  has  been  heard  publicly  to 
declare  that  he  employed  1000  hands  constantly. 
Now  the  earnings  of  these  at  the  honorable  part 
of  the  trade  would  be  upon  an  average,  taking 
the  skilful  with  the  unskilful,  15^.  a  week  each,  or 
i^39,ooo  a  year.  But  since  they  discharged  the 
men  from  off  their  premises,  they  have  cut  down 
the  wages  of  the  workmen  one-half — taking  one 
garment  with  another  —  though  the  selling  prices 
remain  the  same  to  the  public,  so  that  they  have 
saved  by  the  reduction  of  the  workmen's  wages 
no  less  than  ;Ci 9,500  per  year.  Every  other  quar- 
ter of  a  year  something  has  been  *  docked '  off  our 
earnings,  until  it  is  almost  impossible  for  men  with 
families  to  live  decently  by  their  labor;  and  now, 
for  the  first  time,  they  pretend  to  feel  for  them. 
They  even  talk  of  erecting  a  school  for  the  chil- 
dren of  their  workpeople ;  but  where  is  the  use  of 
erecting  schools,  when  they  know  as  well  as  we  do, 
that  at  the  wages  they  pay,  the  children  must  be 
working  for  their  fathers  at  home?  They  had 
much  better  erect  workshops,  and  employ  the  men 
on  the  premises  at  fair  living  wages,  and  then  the 


82  Cheap  Clothes  and  Nasty 

men   could  educate  their  own   children   without 
being  indebted  to  their  charity." 

On  this  last  question  of  what  the  master-canni- 
bals had  "  much  better  do,"  we  have  somewhat  to 
say  presently.  In  the  meantime,  hear  another  of 
the  things  which  they  had  much  better  not  do. 
/^  "  Part  of  the  fraud  and  deception  of  the  slop  trade 
■^  consists  in  the  mode  in  which  the  public  are  made 
believe  that  the  men  working  for  such  establish- 
ments earn  more  money  than  they  really  do.  The 
plan  practised  is  similar  to  that  adopted  by  the 
army  clothier,  who  made  out  that  the  men  working 
on  his  establishment  made  per  week  from  i^s.  to 
17J.  each,  whereas,  on  inquiry,  it  was  found  that  a 
considerable  sum  was  paid  out  of  that  to  those 
who  helped  to  do  the  looping  for  those  who  took 
it  home.  When  a  coat  is  given  to  me  to  make,  a 
ticket  is  handed  to  me  with  the  garment,  similar  to 
this  one  which  I  have  obtained  from  a  friend  of 
mine. 


448 

Mr.  Smith  6,675  Made  by  M              \ 

Ze^^i2s.^B^lined  lustre 

quilted  double  stitched 

each  side  seams 

448. 

No.  6,675. 

Mr. 

o'clock  Friday 
Smith 

On  this  you  see  the  price  is  marked  at  I2j."  con- 
tinued my  informant,  "  and  supposing  that  I,  with 
two  others,  could  make  three  of  these  garments  in 
the  week,  the  sum  of  thirty-six  shillings  would 
stand  in  the  books   of  the   establishment  as  the 


Cheap  Clothes  and  Nasty  83 

amount  earned  by  me  in  that  space  of  time.  This 
would  be  sure  to  be  exhibited  to  the  customers,  im- 
mediately that  there  was  the  least  outcry  made 
about  the  starvation  price  they  paid  for  their  work, 
as  a  proof  that  the  workpeople  engaged  on  their 
establishment  received  the  full  prices ;  whereas,  of 
tliat  365.  entered  against  my  name,  /  should  have 
had  to  pay  24s.  to  those  who  assisted  me;  besides 
this,  my  share  of  the  trimmings  and  expenses  would 
have  been  \s.  6d.t  and  probably  my  share  of  the 
fires  would  be  li".  more ;  so  that  the  real  fact  would 
be,  that  I  should  make  9^.  6d.  clear,  and  this  it 
would  be  almost  impossible  to  do,  if  I  did  not  work 
long  over  hours.  I  am  obliged  to  keep  my  wife 
continually  at  work  helping  me,  in  order  to  live." 
In  short,  the  condition  of  these  men  is  far  worse 
than  that  of  the  wretched  laborers  of  Wilts  or 
Dorset.  Their  earnings  are  as  low  and  often 
lower ;  their  trade  requires  a  far  longer  instruction, 
far  greater  skill  and  shrewdness;  their  rent  and 
food  are  more  expensive ;  and  their  hours  of  work, 
while  they  have  work,  more  than  half  as  long  again. 
Conceive  sixteen  or  eighteen  hours  of  skilled  labor 
in  a  stifling  and  fetid  chamber,  earning  not  much 
more  than  6s.  6d.  or  ys.  a  week !  And,  as  has  been 
already  mentioned  in  one  case,  the  man  who  will 
earn  even  that,  must  work  all  Sunday.  He  is  even 
liable  to  be  thrown  out  of  his  work  for  refusing  to 
work  on  Sunday.  Why  not?  Is  there  anything 
about  one  idle  day  in  seven  to  be  found  among 
the  traditions  of  Mammon?  When  the  demand 
comes,  the  supply  must  come ;  and  will,  in  spite  of 
foolish  auld-warld  notion  about  keeping  days  holy 
—  or  keeping  contracts  holy  either,  for,  indeed. 
Mammon   has   no   conscience  —  right  and  wrong 


84  Cheap  Clothes  and  Nasty- 

are  not  words  expressible  by  any  commercial  laws 
yet  in  vogue ;  and  therefore  it  appears  that  to  earn 
this  wretched  pittance  is  by  no  means  to  get  it. 
"  For,"  says  one,  and  the  practice  is  asserted  to  be 
general,  almost  universal,  "  there  is  at  our  establish- 
ment a  mode  of  reducing  the  price  of  our  labor  even 
lower  than  we  have  mentioned.  The  prices  we 
have  stated  are  those  nominally  paid  for  making 
the  garments ;  but  it  is  not  an  uncommon  thing  in 
our  shop  for  a  man  to  make  a  garment,  and  receive 
nothing  at  all  for  it.  I  remember  a  man  once 
having  a  waistcoat  to  do,  the  price  of  making 
which  was  2^.,  and  when  he  gave  the  job  in  he  was 
told  that  he  owed  the  establishment  6d.  The 
manner  in  which  this  is  brought  about  is  by  a  sys- 
tem of  fines.  We  are  fined  if  we  are  behind  time 
with  our  job,  6d.  the  first  hour,  and  ^d.  for  each  hour 
that  we  are  late."  "  I  have  known  as  much  as  7s.  6d. 
to  be  deducted  off  the  price  of  a  coat  on  the  score 
of  want  of  punctuality,"  one  said ;  "  and,  indeed, 
very  often  the  whole  money  is  stopped.  It  would 
appear  as  if  our  employers  themselves  strove  to 
make  us  late  with  our  work,  and  so  have  an  oppor- 
tunity of  cutting  down  the  price  paid  for  our  labor. 
They  frequently  put  off  giving  out  the  trimmings 
to  us  till  the  time  at  which  the  coat  is  due  has  ex- 
pired. If  to  the  trimmer  we  return  an  answer  that 
is  considered  '  saucy,'  we  are  fined  6d.  or  \s.  ac- 
cording to  the  trimmer's  temper."  "  I  was  called 
a  thief,"  another  of  the  three  declared,  "  and  be- 
cause I  told  the  man  I  would  not  submit  to  such 
language,  I  was  fined  6d.  These  are  the  principal 
of  the  in-door  fines.  The  out-door  fines  are  still 
more  iniquitous.  There  are  full  a  dozen  more 
fines  for  minor  offences ;  indeed,  we  are  fined  upon 


Cheap  Clothes  and  Nasty  85 

every  petty  pretext.  We  never  know  what  we  have 
to  take  on  a  Saturday,  for  the  meanest  advantages 
are  taken  to  reduce  our  wages.  If  we  object  to 
pay  these  fines,  we  are  told  that  we  may  leave; 
but  they  know  full  well  that  we  are  afraid  to  throw 
ourselves  out  of  work." 

/'^olks  are  getting  somewhat  tired  of  the  old 
rodomontade  that  a  slave  is  free  the  moment  he 
sets  foot  on  British  soil !  Stuff!  —  are  these  tailors 
free?  Put  any  conceivable  sense  you  will  on  the 
word,  and  then  say  —  are  they  free?  We  have, 
thank  God,  emancipated  the  black  slaves;  it 
would  seem  a  not  inconsistent  sequel  to  that  act  to 
set  about  emancipating  these  white  ones.  Oh  !  we 
forgot;  there  is  an  infinite  difference  between  the 
two  cases  —  the  black  slaves  worked  for  our 
colonies;  the  white  slaves  work  for  us.  But, 
indeed,  if,  as  some  preach,  self-interest  is  the  main- 
spring of  all  human  action,  it  is  difficult  to  see  who 
will  step  forward  to  emancipate  the  said  white 
slaves ;  for  all  classes  seem  to  consider  it  equally 
their  interest  to  keep  them  as  they  are ;  all  classes, 
though  by  their  own  confession  they  are  ashamed, 
are  yet  not  afraid  to  profit  by  the  system  which 
keeps  them  down. 

Not  only  the  master  tailors  and  their  underlings, 
but  the  retail  tradesmen,  too,  make  their  profit  out 
of  these  abominations.  By  a  method  which 
smacks  at  first  sight  somewhat  of  benevolence,  but 
proves  itself  in  practice  to  be  one  of  those  "  pre- 
cious balms  which  break,"  not "  the  head  "  (for  that 
would  savor  of  violence,  and  might  possibly  give 
some  bodily  pain,  a  thing  intolerable  to  the  nerves 
of  Mammon)  but  the  heart  —  an  organ  which,  be- 
ing spiritual,  can  of  course  be  recognized  by  no 


86  Cheap  Clothes  and  Nasty 

laws  of  police  or  commerce.  The  object  of  the 
State,  we  are  told,  is  "  the  conservation  of  body 
and  goods  " ;  there  is  nothing  in  that  about  broken 
hearts;  nothing  which  should  make  it  a  duty  to 
forbid  such  a  system  as  a  working  tailor  here 
describes :  — 

"  Fifteen  or  twenty  years  ago,  such  a  thing  as  a 
journeyman  tailor  having  to  give  security  before 
he  could  get  work  was  unknown ;  but  now  I  and 
such  as  myself  could  not  get  a  stitch  to  do  first 
handed,  if  we  did  not  either  procure  the  security 
of  some  householder,  or  deposit  £$  in  the  hands 
of  the  employer.  The  reason  of  this  is,  the  jour- 
neymen are  so  badly  paid  that  the  employers 
know  they  can  barely  live  on  what  they  get,  and 
consequently  they  are  often  driven  to  pawn  the 
garments  given  out  to  them,  in  order  to  save  them- 
selves and  their  families  from  starving.  If  the 
journeyman  can  manage  to  scrape  together  ;^5,  he 
has  to  leave  it  in  the  hands  of  his  employer  all  the 
time  that  he  is  working  for  the  house.  I  know  one 
person  who  gives  out  the  work  for  a  fashionable 
West  End  slop-shop  that  will  not  take  household 
security,  and  requires  ;^5  from  each  hand.  I  am 
informed  by  one  of  the  parties  who  worked  for 
this  man  that  he  has  as  many  as  150  hands  in  his 
employ,  and  that  each  of  these  has  placed  ;^5  in 
his  hands,  so  that  altogether  the  poor  people  have 
handed  over  £7$^  to  increase  the  capital  upon 
which  he  trades,  and  for  which  he  pays  no  interest 
whatsoever." 

This  recalls  a  similar  case  (mentioned  by  a  poor 
stay-stitcher  in  another  letter,  published  in  the 
"  Morning  Chronicle,"  of  a  large  wholesale  stay- 
maker  in  the  City,  who  had   amassed  a  large  for- 


Cheap  Clothes  and  Nasty  87 

tune  by  beginning  to  trade  upon  the  $s.  which  he 
demanded  to  be  left  in  his  hands  by  his  work- 
people before  he  gave  them  employment. 

"  Two  or  three  years  back  one  of  the  slop-sellers 
at  the  East  End  became  bankrupt,  and  the  poor 
people  lost  all  the  money  that  had  been  deposited 
as  security  for  work  in  his  hands.  The  journeymen 
who  get  the  security  of  householders  are  enabled 
to  do  so  by  a  system  which  is  now  in  general  prac- 
tice at  the  East  End.  Several  bakers,  publicans, 
chandler-shop  keepers,  and  coal-shed  keepers, 
make  a  trade  of  becoming  security  for  those  seek- 
ing slop-work.  They  consent  to  be  responsible  for 
the  workpeople  upon  the  condition  of  the  men 
dealing  at  their  shops.  The  workpeople  who  re- 
quire such  security  are  generally  very  good  cus- 
tomers, from  the  fact  of  their  either  having  large 
families,  all  engaged  in  the  same  work,  or  else 
several  females  or  males  working  under  them,  and 
living  at  their  house.  The  parties  becoming  se- 
curities thus  not  only  greatly  increase  their  trade, 
but  furnish  a  second-rate  article  at  a  first-rate 
price.  It  is  useless  to  complain  of  the  bad  quality 
or  high  price  of  the  articles  supplied  by  the  se- 
curities, for  the  shopkeepers  know,  as  well  as  the 
workpeople,  that  it  is  impossible  for  the  hands  to 
leave  them  without  losing  their  work.  I  know  one 
baker  whose  security  was  refused  at  the  slop-shop 
because  he  was  already  responsible  for  so  many, 
and  he  begged  the  publican  to  be  his  deputy,  so 
that  by  this  means  the  workpeople  were  obliged  to 
deal  at  both  baker's  and  publican's  too.  I  never 
heard  of  a  butcher  making  a  trade  of  becoming 
security,  because  the  slopwork  people  cannot  afford 
to  consume  much  meat. 


88  Cheap  Clothes  and  Nasty 

"  The  same  system  is  also  pursued  by  lodging- 
house  keepers.  They  will  become  responsible  if 
the  workmen  requiring  security  will  undertake  to 
lodge  at  their  house." 

But  of  course  the  men  most  interested  in  keep- 
ing up  the  system  are  those  who  buy  the  clothes 
of  these  cheap  shops.  And  who  are  they?  Not 
merely  the  blackguard  gent  —  the  butt  of  Albert 
Smith  and  Punch,  who  flaunts  at  the  Casinos  and 
Cremorne  Gardens  in  vulgar  finery  wrung  out  of 
the  souls  and  bodies  of  the  poor ;  not  merely  the 
poor  lawyer's  clerk  or  reduced  half-pay  officer 
who  has  to  struggle  to  look  as  respectable  as  his 
class  commands  him  to  look  on  a  pittance  often 
no  larger  than  that  of  the  day  laborer  —  no, 
strange  to  say  —  and  yet  not  strange,  considering 
our  modern  eleventh  commandment  —  "  Buy  cheap 
and  sell  dear,'  the  richest  as  well  as  the  poorest 
imitate  the  example  of  King  Ryence  and  the  tan- 
ners of  Meudon.  At  a  great  show  establish- 
ment —  to  take  one  instance  out  of  many  —  the  very 
one  where,  as  we  heard  just  now,  "  however  strong 
and  healthy  a  man  may  be  when  he  goes  to  work 
at  that  shop,  in  a  month's  time  he  will  be  a  com- 
plete shadow,  and  have  almost  all  his  clothes  in 
pawn " — 

'*  We  have  also  made  garments  for  Sir , 

Sir ,  Alderman ,  Dr. ,    and   Dr. 

.     We  make  for  several   of  the   aristocracy. 

We  cannot  say  whom,  because  the  tickets  fre- 
quently come  to  us  as  Lord and  the  Marquis 

of .     This  could  not  be  a  Jew's  trick,  because 

the  buttons  on  the  liveries  had  coronets  upon 
them.  And  again,  we  know  the  house  is  patron- 
ized largely  by  the  aristocracy,  clergy  and  gentry, 


Cheap  Clothes  and  Nasty  89 

by  the  number  of  court-suits  and  liveries,  surplices, 
regimentals,  and  ladies'  riding-habits  that  we  con- 
tinually have  to  make  up.  There  are  more  clergy- 
fnett  among  the  customers  than  any  other  class,  and 
often  we  have  to  work  at  home  upon  the  Sunday  at 
their  clothes,  in  order  to  get  a  living.  The  custom- 
ers are  mostly  ashamed  of  dealing  at  this  house,  for 
the  men  who  take  the  clothes  to  the  customers' 
houses  in  the  cart  have  directions  to  pull  up  at  the 
corner  of  the  street.  We  had  a  good  proof  of  the 
dislike  of  gentlefolks  to  have  it  known  that  they 
dealt  at  that  shop  for  their  clothes,  for,  when  the 
trousers  buttons  were  stamped  with  the  name  of 
the  firm,  we  used  to  have  the  garments  returned, 
daily,  to  have  other  buttons  put  on  them,  and  now 
the  buttons  are  unstamped  "  !  !  ! 

We  shall  make  no  comment  on  this  extract.  It 
needs  none.  If  these  men  know  how  their  clothes 
are  made,  they  are  past  contempt.  Afraid  of  man, 
and  not  afraid  of  God  !  As  if  His  eye  could  not 
see  the  cart  laden  with  the  plunder  of  the  poor,  be- 
cause it  stopped  round  the  corner?  If,  on  the 
other  hand,  they  do  not  know  these  things,  and 
doubtless  the  majority  do  not,  —  it  is  their  sin  that 
they  do  not  know  it.  Woe  to  a  society  whose  only 
apology  to  God  and  man  is,  "  Am  I  my  brother's 
keeper?  "  Men  ought  to  know  the  condition  of 
those  by  whose  labor  they  live.  Had  the  ques- 
tion been  the  investment  of  a  few  pounds  in  a 
speculation,  these  gentlemen  would  have  been  care- 
ful enough  about  good  security.  Ought  they  to 
take  no  security  when  they  invest  their  money  in 
clothes,  that  they  are  not  putting  on  their  backs 
accursed  garments,  offered  in  sacrifice  to  devils, 
reeking  with  the  sighs  of  the  starving,  tainted  — 

Vol.  Ill— 5 


9©  Cheap  Clothes  and  Nasty 

yes,  tainted,  indeed,  for  it  comes  out  now  that 
diseases  numberless  are  carried  home  in  these  same 
garments  from  the  miserable  abodes  where  they 
are  made.  Evidence  to  this  effect  was  given  in 
1844;  but  Mammon  was  too  busy  to  attend  to  it 
These  wretched  creatures,  when  they  have  pawned 
their  own  clothes  and  bedding,  will  use  as  substi- 
tutes the  very  garments   they   are   making.      So 

Lord 's  coat  has  been  seen  covering  a  group 

of  children  blotched  with  small-pox.    The   Rev. 

D finds  himself  suddenly  unpresentable  from 

a  cutaneous  disease,  which  it  is  not  polite  to  men- 
tion on  the  south  of  Tweed,  little  dreaming  that  the 
shivering  dirty  being  who  made  his  coat  has  been 
sitting  with  his  arms  in  the  sleeves  for  warmth 
while  he  stitched  at  the  tails.     The  charming  Miss 

C is  swept  off  by  typhus   or  scarlatina,   and 

her  parents  talk  about "  God's  heavy  judgment  and 
visitation  "  —  had  they  tracked  the  girl's  new  rid- 
ing-habit back  to  the  stifling  undrained  hovel  where 
it  served  as  a  blanket  to  the  fever-stricken  slop- 
worker,  they  would  have  seen  why  God  had  visited 
them,  seen  that  his  judgments  are  true  judgments, 
and  give  His  plain  opinion  of  the  system  which 
**  speaketh  good  of  the  covetous  whom  God  ab- 
horreth "  —  a  system,  to  use  the  words  of  the 
"  Morning  Chronicle's"  correspondent,  "  unheard  of 
and  unparalleled  in  the  history  of  any  country  —  a 
scheme  so  deeply  laid  for  the  introduction  and  sup- 
ply of  under-paid  labor  to  the  market,  that  it  is 
impossible  for  the  working  man  not  to  sink  and  be 
degraded  by  it  into  the  lowest  depths  of  wretched- 
ness and  infamy  —  a  system  which  is  steadily  and 
gradually  increasing,  and  sucking  more  and  more 
victims  out  of  the  honorable  trade,  who  are  really 


Cheap  Clothes  and  Nasty  91 

intelligent  artisans,  living  in  comparative  comfort 
and  civilization,  into  the  dishonorable  or  sweating 
trade  in  which  the  slop-workers  are  generally  al- 
most brutified  by  their  incessant  toil,  wretched 
pay,  miserable  food,  and  filthy  homes." 

But  to  us,  almost  the  worst  feature  in  the  whole 
matter  is,  that  the  Government  are  not  merely 
parties  to,  but  actually  the  originators  of  this  sys- 
tem. The  contract  system,  as  a  working  tailor 
stated,  in  the  name  of  the  rest,  "  had  been  mainly 
instrumental  in  destroying  the  living  wages  of  the 
working  man.  Now,  the  Government  were  the  sole 
originators  of  the  system  of  contracts  and  of  sweat- 
ing. Forty  years  ago,  there  was  nothing  known  of 
contracts,  except  Government  contracts ;  and  at 
that  period  the  contractors  were  confined  to  mak- 
ing slops  for  the  navy,  the  army,  and  the  West 
India  slaves.  It  was  never  dreamt  of  then  that 
such  a  system  was  to  come  into  operation  in  the 
better  classes  of  trade,  till  ultimately  it  was  de- 
structive of  masters  as  well  as  men.  The  Govern- 
ment having  been  the  cause  of  the  contract  system, 
and  consequently  of  the  sweating  system,  he  called 
upon  them  to  abandon  it.  The  sweating  system 
had  established  the  show-shops  and  the  ticket 
system,  both  of  which  were  countenanced  by  the 
Government,  till  it  had  become  a  fashion  to  sup- 
port them. 

"  Even  the  Court  assisted  to  keep  the  system  in 
fashion,  and  the  royal  arms  and  royal  warrants  were 
now  exhibited  common  enough  by  slop-sellers." 

"  Government  said,  its  duty  was  to  do  justice. 
But  was  it  consistent  with  justice  to  pay  only  2s. 
6d.  for  making  navy  jackets,  which  would  be  paid 
10^.  for  by  every  'honorable'  tradesman?     Was 


92  Cheap  Clothes  and  Nasty 

it  consistent  with  justice  for  the  Government  to 
pay  for  Royal  Marine  clothing  (private's  coat  and 
epaulettes)  i^.  9^.?  Was  it  consistent  with  justice 
for  the  Government  to  pay  for  making  a  pair  of 
trousers  (four  or  five  hours'  work)  only  2^t/.? 
And  yet,  when  a  contractor,  noted  for  paying  just 
wages  to  those  he  employed,  brought  this  under 
the  consideration  of  the  Admiralty,  they  declared 
they  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  Here  is  their 
answer :  — 

"  Admiralty,  March  19, 1847. 

"Sir  —  Having  laid  before  my  Lords  Commissioners 
of  the  Admiralty  your  letter  of  the  8th  inst.,  calling  their 
attention  to  the  extremely  low  prices  paid  for  making  up 
articles  of  clothing,  provided  for  her  Majesty's  naval 
service,  I  am  commanded  by  their  lordships  to  acquaint 
you  that  they  have  no  control  whatever  over  the  wages 
paid  for  making  up  contract  clothing.  Th'iir  duty  is  to 
take  care  that  the  articles  supplied  are  of  good  quality, 
and  well  made  :  the  cost  of  the  material  and  the  work- 
manship are  matters  which  rest  with  the  contractor ;  and 
if  the  public  were  to  pay  him  a  higher  price  than  that 
demanded,  it  would  not  ensure  any  advantage  to  the 
men  employed  by  him,  as  their  wages  depend  upon  the 
amount  of  competition  for  employment  amongst  them- 
selves. 

"  I  am,  Sir,  your  most  obedient  servant, 

"H.  G.  Ward. 

«W.  Shaw,  Esq." 

Oh  most  impotent  conclusion,  however  officially 
cautious,  and  "philosophically"  correct!  Even  if 
the  wages  did  depend  entirely  on  the  amount  of 
competition,  on  whom  does  the  amount  of  compe- 
tition depend  ?     Merely  on  the  gross  numbers  of 


Cheap  Clothes  and  Nasty  93 

the  workmen?  Somewhat,  too,  one  would  think, 
on  the  system  according  to  which  the  labor  and 
the  wages  are  distributed.  But  right  or  wrong,  is 
it  not  a  pleasant  answer  for  the  poor  working  tail- 
ors, and  one  likely  to  increase  their  faith,  hope,  and 
charity  towards  the  present  commercial  system,  and 
those  who  deny  the  possibility  of  any  other? 

"The  Government,"  says  another  tailor  at  the 
same  meeting,  "  had  really  been  the  means  of 
reducing  prices  in  the  tailoring  trade  to  so  low  a 
scale  that  no  human  being,  whatever  his  industry, 
could  live  and  be  happy  in  his  lot.  The  Govern- 
ment were  really  responsible  for  the  first  introduc- 
tion of  female  labor.  He  would  clearly  prove 
what  he  had  stated.  He  would  refer  first  to  the 
army  clothing.  Our  soldiers  were  comfortably 
clothed,  as  they  had  a  right  to  be ;  but  surely  the 
men  who  made  the  clothing  which  was  so  comfort- 
able, ought  to  be  paid  for  their  labor  so  as  to  be 
able  to  keep  themselves  comfortable  and  their  fami- 
lies virtuous.  But  it  was  in  evidence  that  the 
persons  working  upon  army  clothing  could  not, 
upon  an  average,  earn  more  than  is.  a.  day.  Another 
Government  department,  the  post-office,  afforded 
a  considerable  amount  of  employment  to  tailors ; 
but  those  who  worked  upon  the  post-office  clothing 
earned,  at  the  most,  only  is.  6d.  a  day.  The  police 
clothing  was  another  considerable  branch  of  tailor- 
ing ;  this,  like  the  others,  ought  to  be  paid  for  at 
living  prices ;  but  the  men  at  work  at  it  could  only 
earn  is.  6d.  a  day,  supposing  them  to  work  hard 
all  the  time,  fourteen  or  fifteen  hours.  The  Custom 
House  clothing  gave  about  the  same  prices.  Now, 
all  these  sorts  of  work  were  performed  by  time 
workers,  who,  as  a  natural   consequence   of  the 


94  Cheap  Clothes  and  Nasty 

wages  they  received,  were  the  most  miserable  of 
human  beings.  Husband,  wife,  and  family  all 
worked  at  it;  they  just  tried  to  breathe  upon  it; 
to  live  it  never  could  be  called.  Yet  the  same  Gov- 
ernment which  paid  such  wretched  wages,  called 
upon  the  wretched  people  to  be  industrious,  to  be 
virtuouSy  and  happy.  How  was  it  possible,  what- 
ever their  industry,  to  be  virtuous  and  happy? 
The  fact  was,  the  men  who,  at  the  slack  season, 
had  been  compelled  to  fall  back  upon  these  kinds 
of  work,  became  so  beggared  and  broken  down 
by  it,  notwithstanding  the  assistance  of  their  wives 
and  families,  that  they  were  never  able  to  rise  out 
of  it." 
y  And  now  comes  the  question — What  is  to  be 
/j>^  done  with  these  poor  tailors,  to  the  number  of 
between  fifteen  and  twenty  thousand?  Their' con- 
dition, as  it  stands,  is  simply  one  of  ever-increas- 
ing darkness  and  despair.  The  system  which  is 
ruining  them  is  daily  spreading,  deepening.  While 
we  write,  fresh  victims  are  being  driven  by  penury 
.  into  the  slop-working  trade,  fresh  depreciations  of 
labor  are  taking  place.  Like  Ulysses's  com- 
panions in  the  cave  of  Polyphemus,  the  only 
question  among  them  is,  to  scramble  so  far  back 
as  to  have  a  chance  of  being  eaten  at  last.  Before 
them  is  ever-nearing  slavery,  disease,  and  starva- 
tion.    What  can  be  done? 

First  —  this  can  be  done.  That  no  man  who  calls 
himself  a  Christian — no  man  who  calls  himself  a 
man  —  shall  ever  disgrace  himself  by  dealing  at 
any  show-shop  or  slop-shop.  It  is  easy  enough 
to  know  them.  The  ticketed  garments,  the  im- 
pudent puffs,  the  trumpery  decorations,  pro« 
claim    them,  —  every    one    knows    them  at   first 


Cheap  Clothes  and  Nasty  95 

sight.  He  who  pretends  not  to  do  so  is  simply 
either  a  fool  or  a  liar.  Let  no  man  enter  them 
—  they  are  the  temples  of  Moloch  —  their  thresh- 
olds are  rank  with  human  blood.  God's  curse 
is  on  them,  and  on  those  who,  by  support- 
ing them,  are  partakers  of  their  sins.  Above  all, 
let  no  clergyman  deal  at  them.  Poverty  —  and 
many  clergymen  are  poor —  doubly  poor,  because, 
society  often  requires  them  to  keep  up  the  dress 
of  gentlemen  on  the  income  of  an  artisan;  because, 
too,  the  demands  on  their  charity  are  quadruple 
those  of  any  other  class  —  yet  poverty  is  no 
excuse.  The  thing  is  damnable  —  not  Christianity 
only,  but  common  humanity  cries  out  against  it. 
y  Woe  to  those  who  dare  to  outrage  in  private  the 
principles  which  they  preach  in  public !  God  is 
not  mocked ;  and  His  curse  will  find  out  the  priest 
at  the  altar,  as  well  as  the  nobleman  in  his  castle. 

But  it  is  so  hard  to  deprive  the  public  of  the 
luxury  of  cheap  clothes !  Then  let  the  public 
look  out  for  some  other  means  of  procuring  that 
priceless  blessing.  If  that,  on  experiment,  be 
found  impossible  —  if  the  comfort  of  the  few  be 
forever  to  be  bought  by  the  misery  of  the 
many — if  civilization  is  to  benefit  every  one 
except  the  producing  class  —  then  this  world  is 
truly  the  devil's  world,  and  the  sooner  so  ill- 
constructed  and  infernal  a  machine  is  destroyed 
by  that  personage,  the  better. 

But  let,  secondly,  a  dozen,  or  fifty,  or  a  hundred 
journeymen  say  to  one  another:  "  It  is  competition 
that  is  ruining  us,  and  competition  is  division,  dis- 
union, every  man  for  himself,  every  man  against  his 
brother.  The  remedy  must  be  in  association, 
co-operation,    self-sacrifice   for  the    sake   of  one 


) 


96  Cheap  Clothes  and  Nasty 

another.  We  can  work  together  at  the  honor- 
able tailor's  workshop  —  we  can  work  and  live 
together  in  the  sweater's  den  for  the  profit  of  our 
employers;  why  should  we  not  work  and  live 
together  in  our  own  workshops,  or  our  own  homes, 
for  our  own  profit?  The  journeymen  of  the  hon- 
orable trade  are  just  as  much  interested  as  the  slop- 
workers  in  putting  down  sweaters  and  slop-sellers, 
since  their  numbers  are  constantly  decreasing,  so 
that  their  turn  must  come  some  day.  Let  them,  if 
no  one  else  does,  lend  money  to  allow  us  to  set  up 
a  workshop  of  our  own,  a  shop  of  our  own.  If 
the  money  be  not  lent,  still  let  us  stint  and  strain 
ourselves  to  the  very  bone,  if  it  were  only  to  raise 
one  sweater's  security-money,  which  one  of  us 
should  pay  into  the  slop-seller's  hands,  in  his  own 
name,  but  on  behalf  of  all:  that  will  at  least  save 
one  sweater's  profit  out  of  our  labor,  and  bestow 
it  upon  ourselves;  and  we  will  not  spend  that 
profit,  but  hoard  it,  till  we  have  squeezed  out  all 
the  sweaters  one  by  one.  Then  we  will  open  our 
common  shop,  and  sell  at  as  low  a  price  as  the 
cheapest  of  the  show-shops.  We  can  do  this,  — 
by  the  abolition  of  sweaters'  profits,  —  by  the  using, 
as  far  as  possible,  of  one  set  of  fires,  lights,  rooms, 
kitchens,  and  wash-houses,  —  above  all,  by  being 
true  and  faithful  to  one  another,  as  all  partners 
should  be.  And,  then,  all  that  the  master  slop- 
sellers  had  better  do,  will  be  simply  to  vanish  and 
become  extinct." 

And  again,  let  one  man,  or  half  a  'dozen  men 
arise,  who  believe  that  the  world  is  not  the  devil's 
world  at  all,  but  God's :  that  the  multitude  of  the 
people  is  not,  as  Malthusians  aver,  the  ruin,  but 
as  Solomon  believed,  "  the  strength  of  the  rulers  " ; 


Cheap  Clothes  and  Nasty  97 

that  men  are  not  meant  to  be  oeasts  of  prey,  eat- 
ing one  another  up  by  competition,  as  in  some 
confined  pike  pond,  where  the  great  pike,  having 
despatched  the  Httle  ones,  begin  to  devour  each 
other,  till  one  overgrown  monster  is  left  alone  to 
die  of  starvation.  Let  a  few  men  who  have  money, 
and  believe  that,  arise  to  play  the  man. 

Let  them  help  and  foster  the  growth  of  associa- 
tion by  all  means.  Let  them  advise  the  honor- 
able tailors,  while  it  is  time,  to  save  themselves 
from  being  degraded  into  slop -sellers  by  admitting 
their  journeymen  to  a  share  in  profits.  Let 
them  encourage  the  journeymen  to  compete  with 
Nebuchadnezzar  and  Co.  at  their  own  game.  Let 
them  tell  those  journeymen  that  the  experiment  is 
even  now  being  tried,  and,  in  many  instances  suc- 
cessfully, by  no  less  than  one  hundred  and  four 
associations  of  journeymen  in  Paris.  Let  them 
remind  them  of  that  Great  Name  which  the  Pari- 
sian "  ouvrier  "  so  often  forgets  —  of  Him  whose 
everlasting  Fatherhood  is  the  sole  ground  of  all 
human  brotherhood,  whose  wise  and  loving  will  is 
the  sole  source  of  all  perfect  order  and  govern- 
ment. Let  them,  as  soon  as  an  association  is 
formed,  provide  for  them  a  properly  ventilated 
workshop,  and  let  it  out  to  the  associate  tailors  at 
a  low,  fair  rent.  I  believe  that  they  will  not  lose 
by  it  —  because  it  is  right  God  will  take  care  of 
their  money.  The  world,  it  comes  out  now,  is  so 
well  ordered  by  Him,  that  model  lodging-houses, 
public  baths,  wash-houses,  insurance  offices,  all 
pay  a  reasonable  profit  to  those  who  invest  money 
in  them  —  perhaps  associate  workshops  may  do 
the  same.  At  all  events,  the  owners  of  these  show- 
shops  realize  a  far  higher  profit  than  need  be,  while 


98  Cheap  Clothes  and  Nasty 

the  buildings  required  for  a  tailoring  establishment 
are  surely  not  more  costly  than  those  absurd  plate- 
glass  fronts,  and  brass  scroll-work  chandeliers,  and 
puffs,  and  paid  poets.  A  large  house  might  thus 
be  taken,  in  some  central  situation,  the  upper 
floors  of  which  might  be  fitted  up  as  model  lodg- 
ing-rooms for  the  tailor's  trade  alone.  The  draw- 
ing-room floor  might  be  the  work-room;  on  the 
ground  floor  the  shop ;  and,  if  possible,  a  room  of 
call  or  registration  office  for  unemployed  journey- 
men, and  a  reading-room.  Why  should  not  this 
succeed,  if  the  owners  of  the  house  and  the  workers 
who  rent  it  are  only  true  to  one  another?  Every 
tyro  in  political  economy  knows  that  association 
involves  a  saving  both  of  labor  and  of  capital. 
Why  should  it  not  succeed,  when  every  one 
connected  with  the  establishment,  landlords  and 
workmen,  will  have  an  interest  in  increasing  its 
prosperity,  and  none  whatever  in  lowering  the 
wages  of  any  party  employed? 

But  above  all,  so  soon  as  these  men  are  found 
working  together  for  common  profit,  in  the  spirit 
of  mutual  self-sacrifice,  let  every  gentleman  and 
every  Christian,  who  has  ever  dealt  with,  or  could 
ever  have  dealt  with,  Nebuchadnezzar  and  Co.,  or 
their  fellows,  make  it  a  point  of  honor  and  con- 
science to  deal  with  the  associated  workmen,  and 
get  others  to  do  the  like.  It  is  by  securing  custom, 
far  more  than  by  gifts  or  loans  of  moneys  that  we 
can  help  the  operatives.  We  should  but  hang  a 
useless  burden  of  debt  round  their  necks  by 
advancing  capital,  without  affording  them  the 
means  of  disposing  of  their  produce. 

Be  assured,  that  the  finding  of  a  tailors*  model 
lodging-house,    work-rooms,   and  shop,   and   the 


Cheap  Clothes  and  Nasty  99 

letting  out  of  the  two  latter  to  an  association,  would 
be  a  righteous  act  to  do.  If  the  plan  does  not 
pay,  what  then?  only  a  part  of  the  money  can  be 
lost;  and  to  have  given  that  to  an  hospital  or  an 
almshouse  would  have  been  called  praiseworthy 
and  Christian  charity;  how  much  more  to  have 
spent  it  not  in  the  cure,  but  in  the  prevention  of 
evil  —  in  making  almshouses  less  needful,  and  les- 
sening the  number  of  candidates  for  the  hospital! 

Regulations  as  to  police  order,  and  temperance, 
the  workmen  must,  and,  if  they  are  worthy  of  the 
name  of  free  men,  they  can  organize  for  them- 
selves. Let  them  remember  that  an  association 
of  labor  is  very  different  from  an  association  of 
capital.  The  capitalist  only  embarks  his  money 
on  the  venture ;  the  workman  embarks  his  time  — 
that  is,  much  at  least  of  his  life.  Still  more  dififer- 
ent  is  the  operatives'  association  from  the  single 
capitalist,  seeking  only  to  realize  a  rapid  fortune, 
and  then  withdraw.  The  association  knows  no 
withdrawal  from  business ;  it  must  grow  in  length 
and  in  breadth,  outlasting  rival  slop-sellers,  swal- 
lowing up  all  associations  similar  to  itself,  and 
which  might  end  by  competing  with  it.  "  Mo- 
nopoly !  "  cries  a  free-trader,  with  hair  on  end. 
Not  so,  good  friend;  there  will  be  no  real  free 
trade  without  association.  Who  tells  you  that 
tailors'  associations  are  to  be  the  only  ones? 

Some  such  thing,  as  I  have  hinted,  might  surely 
be  done.  Where  there  is  a  will  there  is  a  way. 
No  doubt  there  are  difficulties  —  Howard  and 
Elizabeth  Fry,  too,  had  their  difficulties.  Brindley 
and  Brunei  did  not  succeed  at  the  first  trial.  It  is 
the  sluggard  only  who  is  always  crying,  "  There  is 
a  lion  in  the  streets."     Be  daring — trust  in  God, 


loo         Cheap  Clothes  and  Nasty 

and  He  will  fight  for  you ;  man  of  money,  whom 
these  words  have  touched,  godliness  has  the  prom- 
ise of  this  life,  as  well  as  of  that  to  come.  The 
thing  must  be  done,  and  speedily;  for  if  it  be  not 
done  by  fair  means,  it  will  surely  do  itself  by  foul. 
The  continual  struggle  of  competition,  not  only  in 
the  tailors'  trade,  but  in  every  one  which  is  not, 
like  the  navigator's  or  engineer's,  at  a  premium 
from  its  novel  and  extraordinary  demand,  will 
weaken  and  undermine  more  and  more  the  masters, 
who  are  already  many  of  them  speculating  on 
borrowed  capital,  while  it  will  depress  the  work- 
men to  a  point  at  which  life  will  become  utterly 
intolerable ;  increasing  education  will  serve  only 
to  make  them  the  more  conscious  of  their  own 
misery;  the  boiler  will  be  strained  to  bursting 
pitch,  till  some  jar,  some  slight  crisis,  suddenly 
directs  the  imprisoned  forces  to  one  point,  and 
then 

What  then? 

Look  at  France,  and  see. 

Parson  Lot. 


PREFACE 

TO  THE  UNDERGRADUATES  OF  CAMBRIDGE 

1HAVE  addressed  this  preface  to  the  young 
gentlemen  of  the  University,  first,  because  it 
is  my  duty  to  teach  such  of  them  as  will  hear  me, 
Modern  History ;  and  I  know  no  more  important 
part  of  Modern  History  than  the  condition  and  the 
opinions  of  our  own  fellow-countrymen,  some  of 
which  are  set  forth  in  this  book. 

Next,  I  have  addressed  them  now,  because  I 
know  that  many  of  them,  at  various  times,  have 
taken  umbrage  at  certain  scenes  of  Cambridge  life 
drawn  in  this  book.  I  do  not  blame  them  for 
having  done  so.  On  the  contrary,  I  have  so  far 
acknowledged  the  justice  of  their  censure,  that 
while  I  have  altered  hardly  one  other  word  in  this 
book,  I  have  re-written  all  that  relates  to  Cam- 
bridge life. 

Those  sketches  were  drawn  from  my  own  recol- 
lections of  1 838- 1 842.  Whether  they  were  over- 
drawn is  a  question  between  me  and  men  of  my 
own  standing. 

But  the  book  was  published  in  1849;  and  I  am 
assured  by  men  in  whom  I  have  the  most  thorough 
confidence,  that  my  sketches  had  by  then  at  least 
become  exaggerated  and  exceptional,  and  there- 
fore, as  a  whole,  untrue ;  that  a  process  of  purifica- 


^ 


102  Preface 

tion  was  going  on  rapidly  in  the  University;  and 
that  I  must  alter  my  words  if  I  meant  to  give  the 
workingmen  a  just  picture  of  her. 

Circumstances  took  the  property  and  control  of 
the  book  out  of  my  hand,  and  I  had  no  opportunity 
of  reconsidering  and  of  altering  the  passages. 
Those  circumstances  have  ceased,  and  I  take  the 
first  opportunity  of  altering  all  which  my  friends 
tell  me  should  be  altered. 

But  even  if,  as  early  as  1849,  I  had  not  been 
told  that  I  must  do  so,  I  should  have  done  so  of  my 
own  accord,  after  the  experiences  of  1861.  I  have 
received  at  Cambridge  a  courtesy  and  kindness 
from  my  elders,  a  cordial  welcome  from  my  co- 
equals,  and  an  earnest  attention  from  the  under- 
graduates with  whom  I  have  come  in  contact, 
which  would  bind  me  in  honor  to  say  nothing 
publicly  against  my  University,  even  if  I  had 
aught  to  say.  But  I  have  naught  I  see  at  Cam- 
bridge nothing  which  does  not  gain  my  respect 
for  her  present  state  and  hope  for  her  future.  In- 
creased sympathy  between  the  old  and  young,  in- 
creased intercourse  between  the  teacher  and  the 
taught,  increased  freedom  and  charity  of  thought, 
and  a  steady  purpose  of  internal  self-reform  and 
progress,  seem  to  me  already  bearing  good  fruit, 
by  making  the  young  men  regard  their  University 
with  content  and  respect.  And  among  the  young 
men  themselves,  the  sight  of  their  increased  ear- 
nestness and  highmindedness,  increased  sobriety 
and  temperance,  combined  with  a  manliness  not  in- 
ferior to  that  of  the  stalwart  lads  of  twenty  years 
ago,  has  made  me  look  upon  my  position  among 
them  as  most  noble,  my  work  among  them  as  most 
hopeful,  and  made  me  sure  that  no  energy  which 


Preface  103 

I  can  employ  in  teaching  them  will  ever  have  been 
thrown  away. 

Much  of  this  improvement  seems  to  me  due  to 
the  late  High-Church  movement ;  much  to  the  in- 
fluence of  Dr.  Arnold;  much  to  that  of  Mr. 
Maurice;  much  to  the  general  increase  of  civiliza- 
tion throughout  the  country :  but  whatever  be  the 
causes  of  it,  the  fact  is  patent ;  and  I  take  delight 
in  thus  expressing  my  consciousness  of  it. 

Another  change  I  must  notice  in  the  tone  of 
young  gentlemen,  not  only  at  Cambridge,  but 
throughout  Britain,  which  is  most  wholesome  and 
most  hopeful.  I  mean  their  altered  tone  in  speak- 
ing to  and  of  the  laboring  classes.  Thirty  years 
ago,  and  even  later,  the  young  men  of  the  labor- 
ing classes  were  "  the  cads,"  •'  the  snobs,"  "  the 
blackguards"  ;  looked  on  with  a  dislike,  contempt, 
and  fear,  which  they  were  not  backward  to  return, 
and  which  were  but  too  ready  to  vent  themselves 
on  both  sides  in  ugly  words  and  deeds.  That 
hateful  severance  between  the  classes  was,  I  be- 
lieve, an  evil  of  recent  growth,  unknown  to  old 
England.  From  the  middle  ages,  up  to  the  latter 
years  of  the  French  war,  the  relation  between  the 
English  gentry  and  the  laborers  seems  to  have 
been  more  cordial  and  wholesome  than  in  any 
other  country  of  Europe.  But  with  the  French 
Revolution  came  a  change  for  the  worse.  The 
Revolution  terrified  too  many  of  the  upper,  and 
excited  too  many  of  the  lower  classes;  and  the 
stern  Tory  system  of  repression,  with  its  bad  habit 
of  talking  and  acting  as  if  "  the  government "  and 
"  the  people "  were  necessarily  in  antagonism, 
caused  ever-increasing  bad  blood.  Besides,  the 
old  feudal  ties  between  class   and  class,  employer 


1 04  Preface 

and  employed,  had  been  severed.  Large  masses 
of  working  people  had  gathered  in  the  manufactur- 
ing districts  in  savage  independence.  The  agri- 
cultural laborers  had  been  debased  by  the  abuses 
of  the  old  Poor-law  into  a  condition  upon  which 
one  looks  back  now  with  half-incredulous  horror. 
Meanwhile  the  distress  of  the  laborers  became 
more  and  more  severe.  Then  arose  Luddite  mobs, 
meal  mobs,  farm  riots,  riots  everywhere ;  Captain 
Swing  and  his  rickburners,  Peterloo  "  massacres," 
Bristol  conflagrations,  and  all  the  ugly  sights  and  ru- 
mors which  made  young  lads,  thirty  or  forty  years 
ago,  believe  (and  not  so  wrongly)  that "  the  masses  " 
were  their  natural  enemies,  and  that  they  might 
have  to  fight,  any  year,  or  any  day,  for  the  safety 
of  their  property  and  the  honor  of  their  sisters. 

How  changed,  thank  God  !  is  all  this  now.  Be- 
fore the  influence  of  religion,  both  Evangelical  and 
Anglican;  before  the  spread  of  those  liberal  prin- 
ciples, founded  on  common  humanity  and  justice, 
the  triumph  of  which  we  owe  to  the  courage  and 
practical  good  sense  of  the  Whig  party;  before 
the  example  of  a  Court,  virtuous,  humane,  and  be- 
neficent; the  attitude  of  the  British  upper  classes 
has  undergone  a  noble  change.  There  is  no  aris- 
tocracy in  the  world,  and  there  never  has  been  one, 
as  far  as  I  know,  which  has  so  honorably  repented, 
and  brought  forth  fruits  meet  for  repentance; 
which  has  so  cheerfully  asked  what  its  duty  was, 
that  it  might  do  it.  It  is  not  merely  enlightened 
statesmen,  philanthropists,  devotees,  or  the  work- 
ing clergy,  hard  and  heartily  as  they  are  working, 
who  have  set  themselves  to  do  good  as  a  duty 
specially  required  of  them  by  creed  or  by  station. 
In  the  generality  of  younger  laymen,  as  far  as  I 


Preface  105 

can  see,  a  humanity  (in  the  highest  sense  of  the 
word)  has  been  awakened,  which  bids  fair,  in  an- 
other generation,  to  aboHsh  the  last  remnants  of 
class  prejudices  and  class  grudges.  The  whole 
creed  of  our  young  gentlemen  is  becoming  more 
liberal,  their  demeanor  more  courteous,  their  lan- 
guage more  temperate.  They  inquire  after  the 
welfare,  or  at  least  mingle  in  the  sports  of  the 
laboring  man,  with  a  simple  cordiality  which  was 
unknown  thirty  years  ago ;  they  are  prompt,  the 
more  earnest  of  them,  to  make  themselves  of  use 
to  him  on  the  ground  of  a  common  manhood,  if 
any  means  of  doing  good  are  pointed  out  to  them ; 
and  that  it  is  in  any  wise  degrading  to  "  associate 
with  low  fellows,"  is  an  opinion  utterly  obsolete, 
save  perhaps  among  a  few  sons  of  squireens  in  re- 
mote provinces,  or  of  parvenus  who  cannot  afford 
to  recognize  the  class  from  whence  they  themselves 
have  risen.  In  the  army,  thanks  to  the  purifying 
effect  of  the  Crimean  and  Indian  wars,  the  same 
altered  tone  is  patent.  Officers  feel  for  and  with 
their  men,  talk  to  them,  strive  to  instruct  and 
amuse  them  more  and  more  year  by  year;  and  — 
as  a  proof  that  the  reform  has  not  been  forced  on 
the  officers  by  public  opinion  from  without,  but  is 
spontaneous  and  from  within,  another  instance  of 
the  altered  mind  of  the  aristocracy  —  the  improve- 
ment is  greatest  in  those  regiments  which  are  offi- 
cered by  men  of  the  best  blood ;  and  in  care  for 
and  sympathy  with  their  men,  her  Majesty's  Foot- 
guards  stands  first  of  all.  God  grant  that  the 
friendship  which  exists  there  between  the  leaders 
and  the  led  may  not  be  tested  to  the  death  amid 
the  snowdrift  or  on  the  battlefield ;  but  if  it  be  so, 
I  know  too  that  it  will  stand  the  test. 


1 06  Preface 

But  if  I  wish  for  one  absolute  proof  of  the 
changed  relation  between  the  upper  and  the  lower 
classes,  I  have  only  to  point  to  the  volunteer 
movement.  In  1803,  in  the  face  of  the  most  real 
and  fatal  danger,  the  Addington  ministry  was  afraid 
of  allowing  volunteer  regiments,  and  Lord  Eldon, 
while  pressing  the  necessity,  could  use  as  an  argu- 
ment that  if  the  people  did  not  volunteer  for  the 
Government,  they  would  against  it.  So  broad  was 
even  then  the  gulf  between  the  governed  and  the 
governors.  How  much  broader  did  it  become  in 
after  years !  Had  invasion  threatened  us  at  any 
period  between  181 5  and  1830,  or  even  later,  would 
any  ministry  have  dared  to  allow  volunteer  regi- 
ments? Would  they  have  been  justified  in  doing 
so,  even  if  they  had  dared  ? 

And  now  what  has  come  to  pass,  all  the  world 
knows:  but  all  the  world  should  know  likewise 
that  it  never  would  have  come  to  pass  save  for  — 
not  merely  the  late  twenty  years  of  good  govern- 
ment in  State,  twenty  years  of  virtue  and  liberality 
in  the  Court,  but  —  the  late  twenty  years  of  in- 
creasing rightmindedness  in  the  gentry,  who  have 
now  their  reward  in  finding  that  the  privates  in  the 
great  majority  of  corps  prefer  being  officered  by 
men  of  a  rank  socially  superior  to  their  own.  And 
as  good  always  breeds  fresh  good,  so  this  volunteer 
movement,  made  possible  by  the  goodwill  between 
classes,  will  help  in  its  turn  to  increase  that  good- 
will. Already,  by  the  performance  of  a  common 
duty,  and  the  experience  of  a  common  humanity, 
these  volunteer  corps  are  become  centres  of  cor- 
diality between  class  and  class;  and  gentleman, 
tradesman,  and  workman,  the  more  they  see  of 
each  other,  learn  to  like,  to  trust,  and  to  befriend 


Preface  1 07 

each  other  more  and  more ;  a  good  work  in  which 
I  hope  the  volunteers  of  the  University  of  Cam- 
bridge will  do  their  part  like  men  and  gentlemen ; 
when,  leaving  this  University,  they  become  each  of 
them,  as  they  ought,  an  organizing  point  for  fresh 
volunteers  in  their  own  districts. 

I  know  (that  I  may  return  to  Cambridge)  no 
better  example  of  the  way  in  which  the  altered 
tone  of  the  upper  classes  and  the  volunteer  move- 
ment have  acted  and  re-acted  upon  each  other, 
than  may  be  seen  in  the  Cambridge  Working 
Men's  College,  and  its  volunteer  rifle  corps,  the 
8th  Cambridgeshire. 

There  we  have  —  what  perhaps  could  not  have 
existed,  what  certainly  did  not  exist  twenty  years 
ago  —  a  school  of  a  hundred  men  or  more,  taught 
for  the  last  eight  years  gratuitously  by  men  of  the 
highest  attainments  in  the  University;  by  a  dean 
—  to  whom,  I  believe,  the  success  of  the  attempt 
is  mainly  owing;  by  professors,  tutors,  prizemen, 
men  who  are  now  head-masters  of  public  schools, 
who  have  given  freely  to  their  fellow-men  knowl- 
edge which  has  cost  them  large  sums  of  money 
and  the  heavy  labor  of  years.  Without  insulting 
them  by  patronage,  without  interfering  with  their 
religious  opinions,  without  tampering  with  their  in- 
dependence in  any  wise,  but  simply  on  the  ground 
of  a  common  humanity,  they  have  been  helping  to 
educate  these  men,  belonging  for  the  most  part,  I 
presume,  to  the  very  class  which  this  book  sets 
forth  as  most  unhappy  and  most  dangerous  —  the 
men  conscious  of  unsatisfied  and  unemployed  in- 
tellect. And  they  have  their  reward  in  a  practical 
and  patent  form.  Out  of  these  men  a  volunteer 
corps  is  organized,  officered  partly  by  themselves. 


io8  Preface 

partly  by  gentlemen  of  the  University ;  a  nucleus 
of  discipline,  loyalty,  and  civilization  for  the  whole 
population  of  Cambridge. 

A  noble  work  this  has  been,  and  one  which  may 
be  the  parent  of  works  nobler  still.  It  is  the  first 
instalment  of,  I  will  not  say  a  debt,  but  a  duty, 
which  the  Universities  owe  to  the  working  classes. 
I  have  tried  to  express  in  this  book  what  I  know 
were,  twenty  years  ago,  the  feelings  of  clever  work- 
ingmen,  looking  upon  the  superior  educational 
advantages  of  our  class.  I  cannot  forget,  any 
more  than  the  workingman,  that  the  Universities 
were  not  founded  exclusively,  or  even  primarily, 
for  our  own  class ;  that  the  great  mass  of  students 
in  the  middle  ages  were  drawn  from  the  lower 
classes,  and  that  sizarships,  scholarships,  exhibi- 
tions, and  so  forth,  were  founded  for  the  sake  of 
those  classes,  rather  than  of  our  own.  How  the 
case  stands  now,  we  all  know.  I  do  not  blame  the 
Universities  for  the  change.  It  has  come  about,  I 
think,  simply  by  competition.  The  change  began, 
I  should  say,  in  the  sixteenth  century.  Then,  after 
the  Wars  of  the  Roses,  and  the  revival  of  letters, 
and  the  dissolution  of  the  monasteries,  the  younger 
sons  of  gentlemen  betook  themselves  to  the  pur- 
suit of  letters,  fighting  having  become  treasonable, 
and  farming  on  a  small  scale  difficult  (perhaps 
owing  to  the  introduction  of  large  sheep-farms, 
which  happened  in  those  days),  while  no  monastic 
orders  were  left  to  recruit  the  Universities,  as  they 
did  continually  through  the  middle  ages,  from  that 
laboring  class  to  which  they  and  their  scholars 
principally  belonged. 

So  the  gentlemen's  sons  were  free  to  compete 
against  the  sons  of  workingmen;    and   by  virtue 


Preface  1 09 

of  their  superior  advantages  they  beat  them  out  of 
the  field.  We  may  find  through  the  latter  half  of 
the  sixteenth  and  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth 
centuries,  bequest  after  bequest  for  the  purpose  of 
stopping  this  change,  and  of  enabling  poor  men's 
sons  to  enter  the  Universities ;  but  the  tendency 
was  too  strong  to  be  effectually  resisted  then.  Is 
it  too  strong  to  be  resisted  now?  Does  not  the 
increased  civilization  and  education  of  the  working 
classes  call  on  the  Universities  to  consider  whether 
they  may  not  now  try  to  become,  what  certainly 
they  were  meant  to  be,  places  of  teaching  and 
training  for  genius  of  every  rank,  and  not  merely 
for  that  of  young  gentlemen?  Why  should  not 
wealthy  Churchmen,  in  addition  to  the  many  good 
deeds  in  which  they  employ  their  wealth  nowadays, 
found  fresh  scholarships  and  exhibitions,  confined 
to  the  sons  of  workingmen?  If  it  be  asked,  how 
can  they  be  so  confined?  what  simpler  method 
than  that  of  connecting  them  with  the  National 
Society,  and  bestowing  them  exclusively  on  lads 
who  have  distinguished  themselves  in  our  National 
Schools?  I  believe  that  money  spent  in  such  a 
way  would  be  well  spent  both  for  the  Nation,  the 
Church,  and  the  University.  As  for  the  introduc- 
tion of  such  a  class  of  lads  lowering  the  tone  of 
the  University,  I  cannot  believe  it.  There  is  room 
enough  in  Cambridge  for  men  of  every  rank. 
There  are  still,  in  certain  colleges,  owing  to  cir- 
cumstances which  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  see 
altered,  a  fair  sprinkling  of  young  men  who,  at 
least  before  they  have  passed  through  a  Cambridge 
career,  would  not  be  called  well  bred.  But  they 
do  not  lower  the  tone  of  the  University ;  the  tone 
of  the    University  raises  them.      Wherever  there 


1 1  o  Preface 

is  intellectual  power,  good  manners  are  easily 
acquired;  the  public  opinion  of  young  men  ex- 
presses itself  so  freely,  and  possibly  coarsely,  that 
priggishness  and  forwardness  (the  faults  to  which 
a  clever  National  School  pupil  would  be  most 
prone)  are  soon  hammered  out  of  any  Cambridge 
man;  and  the  result  is,  that  some  of  the  most  dis- 
tinguished and  most  popular  men  in  Cambridge, 
are  men  who  have  "  risen  from  the  ranks."  All 
honor  to  them  for  having  done  so.  But  if  they 
have  succeeded  so  well,  may  there  not  be  hundreds 
more  in  England  who  would  succeed  equally?  and 
would  it  not  be  as  just  to  the  many  as  useful  to 
the  University,  in  binding  her  to  the  people,  and 
the  people  to  her,  to  invent  some  method  for  giv- 
ing those  hundreds  a  fair  chance? 

I  earnestly  press  this  suggestion  (especially  at 
the  present  time  of  agitation  among  Churchmen 
on  the  subject  of  education)  upon  the  attention, 
not  of  the  University  itself,  but  of  those  wealthy 
men  who  wish  well  both  to  the  University  and  to 
the  people.  Not,  I  say,  of  the  University :  it  is 
not  from  her  that  the  proposal  must  come,  but 
from  her  friends  outside.  She  is  doing  her  best 
with  the  tools  which  she  has;  fresh  work  will 
require  fresh  tools,  and  I  trust  that  such  will  be 
some  day  found  for  her. 

I  have  now  to  tell  those  of  them  who  may  read 
this  book,  that  it  is  not  altogether  out  of  date. 

Those  political  passions,  the  last  outburst  of 
which  it  described,  have,  thank  God,  become  mere 
matter  of  history  by  reason  of  the  good  govern- 
ment and  the  unexampled  prosperity  of  the  last 
twelve  years:  but  fresh  outbursts  of  them  are 
always  possible  in  a  free  country,  whenever  there 


Preface  1 1 1 

is  any  considerable  accumulation  of  neglects  and 
wrongs ;  and  meanwhile  it  is  well  —  indeed  it  is 
necessary  —  for  every  student  of  history  to  know 
what  manner  of  men  they  are  who  become  revolu- 
tionaries, and  what  causes  drive  them  to  revolution ; 
that  they  may  judge  discerningly  and  charitably 
of  their  fellow-men,  whenever  they  see  them  rising, 
however  madly,  against  the  powers  that  be. 

As  for  the  social  evils  described  in  this  book, 
they  have  been  much  lessened  in  the  last  few 
years,  especially  by  the  movement  for  sanitary 
reform  :  but  I  must  warn  young  men  that  they  are 
not  eradicated;  that,  for  instance,  only  last  year, 
attention  was  called  by  this  book  to  the  working 
tailors  in  Edinburgh,  and  their  state  was  found,  I 
am  assured,  to  be  even  more  miserable  than  that 
of  the  London  men  in  1848.  And  I  must  warn 
them  also  that  social  evils,  like  dust  and  dirt,  have 
a  tendency  to  reaccumulate  perpetually;  so  that 
however  well  this  generation  may  have  swept  their 
house  (and  they  have  worked  hard  and  honestly 
at  it),  the  rising  generation  will  have  assuredly  in 
twenty  years'  time  to  sweep  it  over  again. 

One  thing  more  I  have  to  say,  and  that  very 
earnestly,  to  the  young  men  of  Cambridge.  They 
will  hear  a  "  conservative  reaction  "  talked  of  as 
imminent,  indeed  as  having  already  begun.  They 
will  be  told  that  this  reaction  is  made  more  cer- 
tain by  the  events  now  passing  in  North  America; 
they  will  be  bidden  to  look  at  the  madnesses  of  an 
unbridled  democracy,  to  draw  from  them  some 
such  lesson  as  the  young  Spartans  were  to  draw  from 
the  drunken  Helots,  and  to  shun  with  horror  any 
further  attempts  to  enlarge  the  suffrage. 

But  if  they  have  learnt  (as  they  should  from  the 


1 1 2  Preface 

training  of  this  University)  accuracy  of  thought  and 
language,  they  will  not  be  content  with  such  vague 
general  terms  as  "  conservatism  "  and  "  democ- 
racy": but  will  ask  themselves  —  If  this  conser- 
vative reaction  is  at  hand,  what  things  is  it  likely 
to  conserve ;  and  still  more,  what  ought  it  to  con- 
serve? If  the  violences  and  tyrannies  of  American 
democracy  are  to  be  really  warnings  to  us,  then 
in  what  points  does  American  democracy  coincide 
with  British  democracy? — For  so  far  and  no 
farther  can  one  be  an  example  or  warning  for  the 
other. 

And  looking,  as  they  probably  will  under  the 
pressure  of  present  excitement,  at  the  latter  ques- 
tion first,  they  will  surely  see  that  no  real  anal- 
ogy would  exist  between  American  and  English 
democracy,  even  were  universal  suffrage  to  be 
granted  to-morrow. 

For  American  democracy,  being  merely  arithmo- 
cratic,  provides  no  representation  whatsoever  for  the 
more  educated  and  more  experienced  minority,  and 
leaves  the  conduct  of  affairs  to  the  uneducated  and 
inexperienced  many,  with  such  results  as  we  see. 
But  those  results  are,  I  believe,  simply  impossible  in 
a  country  which  possesses  hereditary  monarchy 
and  a  House  of  Lords,  to  give  not  only  voice,  but 
practical  power  to  superior  intelligence  and 
experience.  Mr.  J.  S.  Mill,  Mr.  Stapleton,  and 
Mr.  Hare  have  urged  of  late  the  right  of  minorities 
to  be  represented  as  well  as  majorities,  and  have 
offered  plans  for  giving  them  a  fair  hearing.  That 
their  demands  are  wise,  as  well  as  just,  the  present 
condition  of  the  Federal  States  proves  but  too 
painfully.  But  we  must  not  forget  meanwhile, 
that  the  minorities  of  Britain  are  not  altogether 


Preface  113 

unrepresented.  In  a  hereditary  monarch  who  has 
the  power  to  call  into  his  counsels,  private  and 
public,  the  highest  intellect  of  the  land;  in  a 
House  of  Lords  not  wholly  hereditary,  but  re- 
cruited perpetually  from  below  by  the  most  suc- 
cessful (and  therefore,  on  the  whole,  the  most 
capable)  personages ;  in  a  free  press,  conducted  in 
all  its  most  powerful  organs  by  men  of  character 
and  of  liberal  education,  I  see  safeguards  against  any 
American  tyranny  of  numbers,  even  if  an  enlarge- 
ment of  the  suffrage  did  degrade  the  general  tone 
of  the  House  of  Commons  as  much  as  some  expect. 

As  long,  I  believe,  as  the  throne,  the  House  of 
Lords,  and  the  press  are  what,  thank  God,  they 
are,  so  long  will  each  enlargement  of  the  suffrage 
be  a  fresh  source  not  of  danger,  but  of  safety ;  for 
it  will  bind  the  masses  to  the  established  order  of 
things  by  that  loyalty  which  springs  from  content; 
from  the  sense  of  being  appreciated,  trusted,  dealt 
with  not  as  children,  but  as  men. 

There  are  those  who  will  consider  such  lan- 
guage as  this  especially  ill-timed  just  now,  in  the 
face  of  strikes  and  trades'  union  outrages.  They 
point  to  these  things  as  proofs  of  the  unfitness  of 
workmen  for  the  suffrage ;  they  point  especially  to 
the  late  abominable  murder  at  Sheffield,  and  ask, 
not  without  reason,  would  you  give  political  power 
to  men  who  would  do  that? 

Now  that  the  Sheffield  murder  was  in  any  wise 
planned  or  commanded  by  the  trades'  unions  in 
general,  I  do  not  believe ;  nor,  I  think,  does  any 
one  else  who  knows  aught  of  the  British  workman. 
If  it  was  not,  as  some  of  the  Sheffield  men  say,  a 
private  act  of  revenge,  it  was  the  act  of  only  one 
or  two  trades'  unions   of  that  town,   which   are 

Vol.  Ill— 6 


114  Preface 

known ;  and  their  conduct  has  been  already 
reprobated  and  denounced  by  the  other  trades* 
unions  of  England.  But  there  is  no  denying  that 
the  case  as  against  the  Trades'  Unions  is  a  heavy 
one.  It  is  notorious  that  they  have  in  past  years 
planned  and  commanded  illegal  acts  of  violence. 
It  is  patent  that  they  are  too  apt,  from  a  false 
sense  of  class-honor,  to  connive  at  such  now, 
instead  of  being,  as  they  ought  to  be,  the  first  to 
denounce  them.  The  workmen  will  not  see,  that 
by  combining  in  societies  for  certain  purposes, 
they  make  those  societies  responsible  for  the  good 
and  lawful  behavior  of  all  their  members,  in  all 
acts  tending  to  further  those  purposes,  and  are 
bound  to  say  to  every  man  joining  the  trades* 
union :  "  You  shall  do  nothing  to  carry  out  the 
objects  which  we  have  in  view,  save  what  is  allowed 
by  British  Law."  They  will  not  see  that  they  are 
outraging  the  first  principles  of  justice  and  free- 
dom, by  dictating  to  any  man  what  wages  he 
should  receive,  what  master  he  shall  work  for,  or 
any  other  condition  which  interferes  with  his  rights 
as  a  free  agent. 

But,  in  the  face  of  these  facts  (and  very  painful 
and  disappointing  they  are  to  me),  I  will  ask  the 
upper  classes :  Do  you  believe  that  the  average  of 
trades'  union  members  are  capable  of  such  vil- 
lanies  as  that  at  Sheffield?  Do  you  believe  that 
the  average  of  them  are  given  to  violence  or  illegal 
acts  at  all,  even  though  they  may  connive  at  such 
acts  in  their  foolish  and  hasty  fello\/s,  by  a  false 
class-honor,  not  quite  unknown,  I  should  say,  in 
certain  learned  and  gallant  professions?  Do  you 
fancy  that  there  are  not  in  these  trades'  unions, 
tens   of  thousands  of  loyal,  respectable,  rational^ 


Preface  1 1 5 

patient  men,  as  worthy  of  the  suffrage  as  any 
average  borough  voter?  If  you  do  so,  you  really 
know  nothing  about  the  British  workman.  At 
least,  you  are  confounding  the  workman  of  1861 
with  the  workman  of  183 1,  and  fancying  that  he 
alone,  of  all  classes,  has  gained  nothing  by  the  in- 
creased education,  civilization,  and  political  expe- 
rience of  thirty  busy  and  prosperous  years.  You 
are  unjust  to  the  workman ;  and  more,  you  are  un- 
just to  your  own  class.  For  thirty  years  past, 
gentlemen  and  ladies  of  all  shades  of  opinion  have 
been  laboring  for  and  among  the  working  classes, 
as  no  aristocracy  on  earth  ever  labored  before; 
and  do  you  suppose  that  all  that  labor  has  been 
in  vain?  That  it  has  bred  in  the  working  classes 
no  increased  reverence  for  law,  no  increased  con- 
tent with  existing  institutions,  no  increased  confi- 
dence in  the  classes  socially  above  them?  If  so, 
you  must  have  as  poor  an  opinion  of  the  capabil- 
ities of  the  upppr  lasses,  as  you  have  of  those  of 
the  lower. 

So  far  from  the  misdoings  of  trades*  unions 
being  an  argument  against  the  extension  of  the 
suffrage,  they  are,  in  my  opinion,  an  argument  for 
it.  I  know  that  I  am  in  a  minority  just  now.  I 
know  that  the  common  whisper  is  now,  not  es- 
pecially of  those  who  look  for  a  conservative  re- 
action, that  these  trades'  unions  must  be  put 
down  by  strong  measures :  and  I  confess  that  I 
hear  such  language  with  terror.  Punish,  by  all 
means,  most  severely,  all  individual  offences 
against  individual  freedom,  or  personal  safety; 
but  do  not  interfere,  surely,  with  the  trades' 
unions  themselves.  Do  not  try  to  bar  these  men 
of  their  right  as  free  Englishmen  to   combine,  if 


1 1 6  Preface 

they  choose,  for  what  they  consider  their  own 
benefit.  Look  upon  these  struggles  between  em- 
ployers and  employed  as  fair  battles,  in  which,  by 
virtue  of  the  irreversible  laws  of  political  economy, 
the  party  who  is  in  the  right  is  almost  certain  to 
win ;  and  interfere  in  no  wise,  save  to  see  fair  play, 
and  lawful  means  used  on  both  sides  alike.  If  you 
do  more ;  if  you  interfere  in  any  wise  with  the 
trades'  unions  themselves,  you  will  fail,  and  fail 
doubly.  You  will  not  prevent  the  existence  of 
combinations:  you  will  only  make  them  secret, 
dark,  revolutionary :  you  will  demoralize  the  work- 
ingman  thereby  as  surely  as  the  merchant  is  de- 
moralized by  being  converted  into  a  smuggler; 
you  will  heap  up  indignation,  spite,  and  wrath 
against  the  day  of  wrath  ;  and  finally,  to  complete 
your  own  failure,  you  will  drive  the  workingman 
to  demand  an  extension  of  the  suffrage,  in  tones 
which  will  very  certainly  get  a  hearing.  He  cares, 
or  seems  to  care,  little  about  the  suffrage  now,  just 
because  he  thinks  that  he  can  best  serve  his  own 
interests  by  working  these  trades'  unions.  Take 
from  him  that  means  of  redress  (real  or  mistaken, 
no  matter),  and  he  will  seek  redress  in  a  way  in 
which  you  wish  him  still  less  to  seek  it,  by 
demanding  a  vote  and  obtaining  one. 

That  consummation,  undesirable  as  it  may  seem 
to  many,  would  perhaps  be  the  best  for  the  peace 
of  the  trades.  These  trades'  unions,  still  tainted 
with  some  of  the  violence,  secrecy,  false  political 
economy  which  they  inherit  from  the  evil  times  of 
1830-1840,  last  on  simply,  I  believe,  because  the 
workman  feels  that  they  are  his  only  organ,  that  he 
has  no  other  means  of  making  his  wants  and  his 
opinions  known  to  the  British  Government.      Had 


Preface  117 

he  a  vote,  he  believes  (and  I  believe  with  him)  he 
could  send  at  least  a  few  men  to  Parliament  who 
would  state  his  case  fairly  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, and  would  not  only  render  a  reason  for  him, 
but  hear  reason  against  him,  if  need  were.  He 
would  be  content  with  free  discussion  if  he  could 
get  that.  It  is  the  feeling  that  he  cannot  get  it 
that  drives  him  often  into  crooked  and  dark  ways. 
If  any  answer,  that  the  representatives  whom  he 
would  choose  would  be  merely  noisy  demagogues, 
I  believe  them  to  be  mistaken.  No  one  can  have 
watched  the  Preston  strike,  however  much  he  may 
have  disapproved,  as  I  did,  of  the  strike  itself, 
without  seeing  from  the  temper,  the  self-restraint, 
the  reasonablen  ss,  the  chivalrous  honor  of  the 
men,  that  they  were  as  likely  to  choose  a  worthy 
member  for  the  House  of  Commons  as  any  town 
constituency  in  England ;  no  one  can  have  watched 
the  leaders  of  the  workingmen  for  the  last  ten 
years  without  finding  among  them  men  capable  of 
commanding  the  attention  and  respect  of  the  House 
of  Commons,  not  merely  by  their  eloquence,  sur- 
prising as  that  is,  but  by  their  good  sense,  good 
feeling,  and  good  breeding. 

Some  training  at  first,  some  rubbing  off  of 
angles,  they  might  require;  though  two  at  least 
I  know,  who  would  require  no  such  training,  and 
who  would  be  ornaments  to  any  House  of  Com- 
mons ;  the  most  inexperienced  of  the  rest  would 
not  give  the  House  one-tenth  the  trouble  which  is 
given  by  a  certain  clique  among  the  representa- 
tives of  the  sister  Isle ;  and  would,  moreover,  learn 
his  lesson  in  a  week,  instead  of  never  learning  it  at 
all,  like  some  we  know  too  well.  Yet  Catholic 
emancipation  has  pacified  Ireland,  though  it  has 


1 1 8  Preface 

brought  into  the  House  an  inferior  stamp  of  meni' 
bers:  and  much  more  surely  would  an  extension 
of  the  suffrage  pacify  the  trades,  while  it  would 
bring  into  the  House  a  far  superior  stamp  of  mem- 
ber to  those  who  compose  the  clique  of  which  I 
have  spoken. 

But  why,  I  hear  some  one  say  impatiently,  talk 
about  this  subject  of  all  others  at  this  moment, 
when  nobody,  not  even  the  working  classes,  cares 
about  a  reform  bill  ? 

Because  I  am  speaking  to  young  men  who  have 
not  yet  entered  public  life ;  and  because  I  wish 
them  to  understand,  that  just  because  the  question 
of  parliamentary  reform  is  in  abeyance  now,  it  will 
not  be  in  abeyance  ten  years  or  twenty  years 
hence.  The  question  will  be  revived  ere  they  are 
in  the  maturity  of  their  manhood ;  and  they  had 
best  face  that  certain  prospect,  and  learn  to  judge 
wisely  and  accurately  on  the  subject  before  they 
are  called  on,  as  they  will  be,  to  act  upon  it.  If  it 
be  true  that  the  present  generation  has  done  all 
that  it  can  do,  or  intends  to  do,  towards  the  suf- 
frage (and  I  have  that  confidence  in  our  present 
rulers  that  I  would  submit  without  murmuring  to 
their  decision  on  the  point),  it  is  all  the  more  in- 
cumbent on  the  rising  generation  to  learn  how  to 
do  (as  assuredly  they  will  have  to  do)  the  work 
which  their  fathers  have  left  undone.  The  ques- 
tion may  remain  long  in  abeyance,  under  the  in- 
fluence of  material  prosperity  such  as  the  present; 
or  under  the  excitement  of  a  war,  as  in  Pitt's  time ; 
but  let  a  period  of  distress  or  disaster  come,  and  it 
will  be  re-opened  as  of  yore.  The  progress  to- 
wards institutions  more  and  more  popular  may  be 
slow,  but  it  is  sure.     Whenever  any  class  has  con- 


Preface  119 

ceived  the  hope  of  being  fairly  represented,  it  is 
certain  to  fulfil  its  own  hopes,  unless  it  employs, 
or  provokes,  violence  impossible  in  England.  The 
thing  will  be.  Let  the  young  men  of  Britain  take 
care  that  it  is  done  rightly  when  it  is  done. 

And  how  ought  it  to  be  done?  That  will  de- 
pend upon  any  circumstances  now  future  and 
uncertain.  It  will  depend  upon  the  pace  at  which 
sound  education  spreads  among  the  working 
classes.  It  will  depend,  too,  very  much  —  I  fear 
only  too  much,  —  upon  the  attitude  of  the  upper 
classes  to  the  lower,  in  this  very  question  of 
trades'  unions  and  of  strikes.  It  will  depend 
upon  their  attitude  toward  the  unrepresented 
classes  during  the  next  few  years,  upon  this  very 
question  of  extended  suffrage.  And,  therefore,  I 
should  advise,  I  had  almost  said  entreat,  any 
young  men  over  whom  I  have  any  influence,  to 
read  and  think  freely  and  accurately  upon  the 
subject ;  taking,  if  I  may  propose  to  them  a  text- 
book, Mr.  Mill's  admirable  treatise  on  "  Represen- 
tative Government."  As  for  any  theory  of  my  own, 
if  I  had  one  I  should  not  put  it  forward.  How  it 
will  not  be  done,  I  can  see  clearly  enough.  It 
will  not  be  done  well  by  the  old  charter.  It  will 
not  be  done  well  by  merely  lowering  the  money 
qualification  of  electors.  But  it  may  be  done 
well  by  other  methods  beside;  and  I  can  trust 
the  freedom  and  soundness  of  the  English  mind  to 
discover  the  best  method  of  all,  when  it  is  needed. 

Let,  therefore,  this  "  conservative  reaction  " 
which  I  suspect  is  going  on  in  the  minds  of  many 
young  men  at  Cambridge,  consider  what  it  has  to 
conserve.  It  is  not  asked  to  conserve  the  throne. 
That,  thank  God,  can  take  good  care  of  itself    Let 


1 20  Preface 

it  conserve  the  House  of  Lords ;  and  that  will  be 
conserved  just  in  proportion  as  the  upper  classes 
shall  copy  the  virtues  of  royalty;  both  of  him 
who  is  taken  from  us,  and  of  her  who  is  left.  Let 
the  upper  classes  learn  from  them  that  the  just 
and  wise  method  of  strengthening  their  political 
power  is  to  labor  after  that  social  power,  which 
comes  only  by  virtue  and  usefulness.  Let  them 
make  themselves,  as  the  present  Sovereign  has 
made  herself,  morally  necessary  to  the  people; 
and  then  there  is  no  fear  of  their  being  found  polit- 
ically unnecessary.  No  other  course  is  before 
them,  if  they  wish  to  make  their  "  conservative 
reaction  "  a  permanent,  even  an  endurable  fact.  If 
any  young  gentlemen  fancy  (and  some  do)  that 
they  can  strengthen  their  class  by  making  any 
secret  alliance  with  the  Throne  against  the  masses, 
then  they  will  discover  rapidly  that  the  sovereigns 
of  the  House  of  Brunswick  are  grown  far  too  wise, 
and  far  too  noble-hearted,  to  fall  once  more  into 
that  trap.  If  any  of  them  (and  some  do)  fancy 
that  they  can  better  their  position  by  sneering, 
whether  in  public  or  in  their  club,  at  a  reformed 
House  of  Commons  and  a  free  press,  they  will 
only  accelerate  the  results  which  they  most  dread, 
by  forcing  the  ultra-liberal  party  of  the  House, 
and,  what  is  even  worse,  the  most  intellectual  and 
respectable  portion  of  the  press,  to  appeal  to 
the  people  against  them;  and  if  again  they  are 
tempted  (as  too  many  of  them  are)  to  give  up 
public  life  as  becoming  too  vulgar  for  them,  and 
prefer  ease  and  pleasure  to  the  hard  work  and 
plain-speaking  of  the  House  of  Commons ;  then 
they  will  simply  pay  the  same  penalty  for  laziness 
and  fastidiousness  which   has   been  paid  by  the 


Preface  r  2 1 

Spanish  aristocracy ;  and  will  discover  that  if  they 
think  their  intellect  unnecessary  to  the  nation,  the 
nation  will  rapidly  become  of  the  same  opinion, 
and  go  its  own  way  without  them. 

But  if  they  are  willing  to  make  themselves,  as 
they  easily  can,  the  best  educated,  the  most  trust- 
worthy, the  most  virtuous,  the  most  truly  liberal- 
minded  class  of  the  commonweal;  if  they  will 
set  themselves  to  study  the  duties  of  rank  and 
property,  as  of  a  profession  to  which  they  are 
called  by  God,  and  the  requirements  of  which  they 
must  fulfil ;  if  they  will  acquire,  as  they  can  easily, 
a  sound  knowledge  both  of  political  economy  and 
of  the  social  questions  of  the  day ;  if  they  will  be 
foremost  with  their  personal  influence  in  all  good 
works ;  if  they  will  set  themselves  to  compete  on 
equal  terms  with  the  classes  below  them,  and,  as 
they  may,  outrival  them :  then  they  will  find  that 
those  classes  will  receive  them  not  altogether  on 
equal  terms;  that  they  will  accede  to  them  a 
superiority,  undefined,  perhaps,  but  real  and  prac- 
tical enough  to  conserve  their  class  and  their  rank, 
in  every  article  for  which  a  just  and  prudent  man 
would  wish. 

But  if  any  young  gentlemen  look  forward  (as  I 
fear  a  few  do  still)  to  a  conservative  reaction  of 
any  other  kind  than  this ;  to  even  the  least  return 
to  the  Tory  maxims  and  methods  of  George  the 
Fourth's  time ;  to  even  the  least  stoppage  of  what 
the  world  calls  progress  —  which  I  should  define 
as  the  putting  in  practice  the  results  of  inductive 
science;  then  do  they,  like  King  Picrochole  in 
Rabelais,  look  for  a  kingdom  which  shall  be  re- 
stored to  them  at  the  coming  of  the  Cocqcigrues. 
The   Cocqcigrues   are   never   coming;    and    none 


122  Preface 

know  that  better  than  the  present  able  and  mod- 
erate leaders  of  the  Conservative  party ;  none  will 
be  more  anxious  to  teach  that  fact  to  their  young 
adherents,  and  to  make  them  swim  with  the  great 
stream,  lest  it  toss  them  contemptuously  ashore 
upon  its  banks,  and  go  on  its  way  unheeding. 

Return  to  the  system  of  1800- 1830  is,  I  thank 
God,  impossible.  Even  though  men's  hearts 
should  fail  them,  they  must  onward,  they  know 
not  whither :  though  God  does  know.  The  bigot 
who  believes  in  a  system,  and  not  in  the  living 
God ;  the  sentimentalist,  who  shrinks  from  facts 
because  they  are  painful  to  his  taste;  the  sluggard, 
who  hates  a  change  because  it  disturbs  his  ease ; 
the  simply  stupid  person,  who  cannot  use  his  eyes 
and  ears :  all  these  may  cry  feebly  to  the  world  to 
do  what  it  has  never  done  since  its  creation  — 
stand  still  awhile,  that  they  may  get  their  breaths. 
But  the  brave  and  honest  gentleman  —  who  be- 
lieves that  God  is  not  the  tempter  and  deceiver, 
but  the  father  and  the  educator  of  man  —  he  will 
not  shrink,  even  though  the  pace  may  be  at 
moments  rapid,  the  path  be  at  moments  hid  by 
mist;  for  he  will  believe  that  freedom  and  knowl- 
edge, as  well  as  virtue,  are  the  daughters  of  the 
Most  High ;  and  he  will  follow  them  and  call  on 
tlie  rest  to  follow  them,  whithersoever  they  may 
lead ;  and  will  take  heart  for  himself  and  for  his 
class,  by  the  example  of  that  great  Prince  who  is 
of  late  gone  home.  For  if,  like  that  most  royal 
soul,  he  and  his  shall  follow  with  single  eye  and 
steadfast  heart,  freedom,  knowledge,  and  virtue; 
then  will  he  and  his  be  safe,  as  royalty  is  safe  in 
England  now,  because  both  God  and  man  have 
need  thereof. 


PREFACE 

ADDRESSED   TO   THE   WORKINGMEN   OF 
GREAT  BRITAIN 

Written  in  1854 

MY  FRIENDS  —  Since  I  wrote  this  book 
five  years  ago,  I  have  seen  a  good  deal 
of  your  class,  and  of  their  prospects.  Much  that  I 
have  seen  has  given  me  great  hope;  much  has 
disappointed  me ;  nothing  has  caused  me  to  alter 
the  opinions  here  laid  down. 

Much  has  given  me  hope;  especially  in  the 
North  of  England.  I  believe  that  there,  at  least, 
exists  a  mass  of  prudence,  self-control,  genial  and 
sturdy  manhood,  which  will  be  England's  reserve- 
force  for  generations  yet  to  come.  The  last  five 
years,  moreover,  have  certainly  been  years  of  prog- 
ress for  the  good  cause.  The  great  drag  upon  it 
—  namely,  demagogism  —  has  crumbled  to  pieces 
of  its  own  accord ;  and  seems  now  only  to  exhibit 
itself  in  anilities  like  those  of  the  speakers  who 
inform  a  mob  of  boys  and  thieves  that  wheat  has 
lalely  been  thrown  into  the  Thames  to  keep  up 
prices,  or  advise  them  to  establish,  by  means 
hitherto  undiscovered,  national  granaries,  only 
possible  under  the  despotism  of  a  Pharaoh.  Since 
the  loth  of  April,  1848  (one  of  the  most  lucky 
days  which  the  English  workman  ever  saw),  the 


124  Preface 

trade  of  the  mob-orator  has  dwindled  down  to 
such  last  shifts  as  these,  to  which  the  workingman 
sensibly  seems  merely  to  answer,  as  he  goes  quietly 
about  his  business,  "  Why  will  you  still  keep  talk- 
ing, Signor  Benedick?     Nobody  marks  you." 

But  the  lOth  of  April,  1848,  has  been  a  beneficial 
crisis,  not  merely  in  the  temper  of  the  working- 
men,  so  called,  but  in  the  minds  of  those  who  are 
denominated  by  them  "  the  aristocracy."  There  is 
no  doubt  that  the  classes  possessing  property  have 
been  facing,  since  1848,  all  social  questions  with 
an  average  of  honesty,  earnestness,  and  good 
feeling  which  has  no  parallel  since  the  days  of 
the  Tudors,  and  that  hundreds  and  thousands  of 
"  gentlemen  and  ladies  "  in  Great  Britain  now  are 
saying,  "  Show  what  we  ought  to  do  to  be  just  to 
the  workmen,  and  we  will  do  it,  whatsoever  it  costs." 
They  may  not  be  always  correct  (though  they 
generally  are  so)  in  their  conceptions  of  what 
ought  to  be  done ;  but  their  purpose  is  good  and 
righteous ;  and  those  who  hold  it  are  daily  increas- 
ing in  number.  The  love  of  justice  and  mercy 
toward  the  handicraftsman  is  spreading  rapidly,  as 
it  never  did  before  in  any  nation  upon  earth ;  and 
if  any  man  still  represents  the  holders  of  property, 
as  a  class,  as  the  enemies  of  those  whom  they  em- 
ploy, desiring  their  slavery  and  their  ignorance,  I 
believe  that  he  is  a  liar  and  a  child  of  the  devil, 
and  that  he  is  at  his  father's  old  work,  slandering 
and  dividing  between  man  and  man.  These  words 
may  be  severe :  but  they  are  deliberate ;  and  work- 
ingmen  are,  I  hope,  sufficiently  accustomed  to  hear 
me  call  a  spade  a  spade,  when  I  am  pleading  for 
them,  to  allow  me  to  jio  the  same  when  I  am  plead- 
ing to  them- 


Preface  125 

Of  the  disappointing  experiences  which  I  have 
had  I  shall  say  nothing,  save  in  as  far  as  I  can,  by 
alluding  to  them,  point  out  to  the  workingman 
the  causes  which  still  keep  him  weak :  but  I  am 
bound  to  say  that  those  disappointments  have 
strengthened  my  conviction  that  this  book,  in  the 
main,  speaks  the  truth. 

I  do  not  allude,  of  course,  to  the  thoughts  and 
feelings  of  the  hero.  They  are  compounded  of 
right  and  wrong,  and  such  as  I  judged  (and  work- 
ingmen  whom  I  am  proud  to  number  among  my 
friends  have  assured  me  that  I  judged  rightly)  that 
a  workingman  of  genius  would  feel  during  the 
course  of  his  self-education.  These  thoughts  and 
feelings  (often  inconsistent  and  contradictory  to 
each  other),  stupid  or  careless  or  ill-willed  per- 
sons have  represented  as  my  own  opinions,  having, 
as  it  seems  to  me,  turned  the  book  upside  down 
before  they  began  to  read  it.  I  am  bound  to  pay 
the  workingmen,  and  their  organs  in  the  press, 
the  compliment  of  saying  that  no  such  misrepre- 
sentations proceeded  from  them.  However  deeply 
some  of  them  may  have  disagreed  with  me,  all  of 
them,  as  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  judge,  had 
sense  to  see  what  I  meant ;  and  so,  also,  have  the 
organs  of  the  High-Church  party,  to  whom,  differ- 
ing from  them  on  many  points,  I  am  equally 
bound  to  offer  my  thanks  for  their  fairness.  But, 
indeed,  the  way  in  which  this  book,  in  spite  of  its 
crudities,  has  been  received  by  persons  of  all 
ranks  and  opinions,  who,  instead  of  making  me  an 
offender  for  a  word,  have  taken  the  book  heartily 
and  honestly,  in  the  spirit  and  not  in  the  letter, 
has  made  me  most  hopeful  for  the  British  mind, 
and  given  me  a  strong  belief  that,  in  spite  of  all 


126  Preface 

foppery,  luxury,  covetousness,  and  unbelief,  the 
English  heart  is  still  strong  and  genial,  able  and 
willing  to  do  and  suffer  great  things,  as  soon  as  the 
rational  way  of  doing  and  suffering  them  becomes 
plain.  Had  I  written  this  book  merely  to  please 
my  own  fancy,  this  would  be  a  paltry  criterion,  at 
once  illogical  and  boastful;  but  I  wrote  it,  God 
knows,  in  the  fear  of  God,  that  I  might  speak 
what  seems  to  me  the  truth  of  God.  I  trusted  in 
Him  to  justify  me,  in  spite  of  my  own  youth, 
inexperience,  hastiness,  clumsiness;  and  He  has 
done  it ;  and,  I  trust,  will  do  it  to  the  end. 

And  now,  what  shall  I  say  to  you,  my  friends, 
about  the  future?  Your  destiny  is  still  in  your 
own  hands.  For  the  last  seven  years  you  have  let 
it  slip  through  your  fingers.  If  you  are  better  off 
than  you  were  in  1848,  you  owe  it  principally  to 
those  laws  of  political  economy  (as  they  are  called), 
which  I  call  the  brute  natural  accidents  of  supply 
and  demand,  or  to  the  exertions  which  have  been 
made  by  upright  men  of  the  very  classes  whom 
demagogues  taught  you  to  consider  as  your  nat- 
ural enemies.  Pardon  me  if  I  seem  severe  ;  but, 
as  old  Aristotle  has  it,  "  Both  parties  being  my 
friends,  it  is  a  sacred  duty  to  honor  truth  first." 
And  is  this  not  the  truth?  How  little  have  the 
workingmen  done  to  carry  out  that  idea  of  as- 
sociation in  which,  in  1 848-1 849,  they  were  all 
willing  to  confess  their  salvation  lay.  Had  the 
money  which  was  wasted  in  the  hapless  Preston 
strike  been  wisely  spent  in  relieving  the  labor 
market  by  emigration,  or  in  making  wages  more 
valuable  by  enabling  the  workman  to  buy  from  co- 
operative stores  and  mills  his  necessaries  at  little 
above  cost  price,  how  much  sorrow  and  heart-burn- 


Preface  1 27 

ing  might  have  been  saved  to  the  iron  trades.  Had 
the  real  English  endurance  and  courage  which  was 
wasted  in  that  strike  been  employed  in  the  cause 
of  association,  the  men  might  have  been,  ere  now, 
far  happier  than  they  are  ever  likely  to  be,  without 
the  least  injury  to  the  masters.  What,  again,  has 
been  done  toward  developing  the  organization  of 
the  trades'  unions  into  its  true  form,  association 
for  distribution,  from  its  old,  useless,  and  savage 
form  of  association  for  the  purpose  of  resistance 
to  masters  —  a  war  which  is  at  first  sight  hopeless, 
even  were  it  just,  because  the  opposite  party  holds 
in  his  hand  the  supplies  of  his  foe  as  well  as  his 
own,  and  therefore  can  starve  him  out  at  his 
leisure?  What  has  been  done,  again,  toward 
remedying  the  evils  of  the  slop  system,  which  this 
book  especially  exposed?  The  true  method  for 
the  workingmen,  if  they  wished  to  save  their 
brothers  and  their  brothers'  wives  and  daughters 
from  degradation,  was  to  withdraw  their  custom 
from  the  slop-sellers,  and  to  deal,  even  at  a  tem- 
porary increase  of  price,  with  associate  workmen. 
Have  they  done  so?  They  can  answer  for  them- 
selves. In  London  (as  in  the  country  towns),  the 
paltry  temptation  of  buying  in  the  cheapest  mar- 
ket has  still  been  too  strong  for  the  laboring  man. 
In  Scotland  and  in  the  North  of  England,  thank 
God,  the  case  has  been  very  different;  and  to  the 
North  I  must  look  still,  as  I  did  when  I  wrote 
"  Alton  Locke,"  for  the  strong  men  in  whose  hands 
lies  the  destiny  of  the  English  handicraftsman. 

God  grant  that  the  workmen  of  the  South  of 
England  may  bestir  themselves  ere  it  be  too  late, 
and  discover  that  the  only  defence  against  want 
is  self-restraint ;  the  only  defence  against  slavery, 


128  Preface 

obedience  to  rule;  and  that,  instead  of  giving 
themselves  up,  bound  hand  and  foot,  by  their  own 
fancy  for  a  "  freedom  "  which  is  but  selfish  and  con- 
ceited license,  to  the  brute  accidents  of  the  com- 
petitive system,  they  may  begin  to  organize  among 
themselves  associations  for  buying  and  selling  the 
necessaries  of  life,  which  may  enable  them  to 
weather  the  dark  season  of  high  prices  and  stagna- 
tion, which  is  certain,  sooner  or  later,  to  follow  in 
the  footsteps  of  war. 

On  politics  I  have  little  to  say.  My  belief  re- 
mains unchanged  that  true  Christianity,  and  true 
monarchy  also,  are  not  only  compatible  with,  but 
require  as  their  necessary  complement,  true  free- 
dom for  every  man  of  every  class ;  and  that  the 
charter,  now  defunct,  was  just  as  wise  and  as  right- 
eous a  "  reform  bill "  as  any  which  England  had 
yet  had,  or  was  likely  to  have.  But  I  frankly  say 
that  my  experience  of  the  last  five  years  gives 
me  little  hope  of  any  great  development  of  the  true 
democratic  principle  in  Britain,  because  it  gives  me 
little  sign  that  the  many  are  fit  for  it.  Remember 
always  that  democracy  means  a  government  not 
merely  by  numbers  of  isolated  individuals,  but  by 
a  Demos  —  by  men  accustomed  to  live  in  Demoi, 
or  corporate  bodies,  and  accustomed,  therefore,  to 
the  self-control,  obedience  to  law,  and  self-sacrific- 
ing public  spirit,  without  which  a  corporate  body 
cannot  exist :  but  that  a  "  democracy "  of  mere 
numbers  is  no  democracy,  but  a  mere  brute  "  arith- 
mocracy,"  which  is  certain  to  degenerate  into  an 
"  ochlocracy,"  or  government  by  the  mob,  in  which 
the  numbers  have  no  real  share :  an  oligarchy  of 
the  fiercest,  the  noisiest,  the  rashest,  and  the  most 
shameless,  which  is  surely  swallowed  up  either  by 


Preface  129 

a  despotism,  as  in  France,  or,  as  in  Athens,  by  utter 
national  ruin,  and  helpless  slavery  to  a  foreign  in- 
vader. Let  the  workmen  of  Britain  train  them- 
selves in  the  corporate  spirit,  and  in  the  obedience 
and  self-control  which  it  brings,  as  they  easily  can 
in  associations,  and  bear  in  mind  always  that  only 
he  who  can  obey  is  fit  to  rule;  and  then,  when  they 
are  fit  for  it,  the  charter  may  come,  or  things,  I 
trust,  far  better  than  the  charter;  and  till  they 
have  done  so,  let  them  thank  the  just  and  merciful 
Heavens  for  keeping  out  of  their  hands  any  power, 
and  for  keeping  off  their  shoulders  any  responsi- 
bility, which  they  would  not  be  able  to  use  aright. 
I  thank  God  heartily,  this  day,  that  I  have  no  share 
in  the  government  of  Great  Britain ;  and  I  advise 
my  working  friends  to  do  the  same,  and  to  believe 
that,  when  they  are  fit  to  take  their  share  therein, 
all  the  powers  of  earth  cannot  keep  them  from 
taking  it ;  and  that,  till  then,  happy  is  the  man  who 
does  the  duty  which  lies  nearest  him,  who  educates 
his  family,  raises  his  class,  performs  his  daily  work 
as  to  God  and  to  his  country,  not  merely  to  his  em- 
ployer and  himself;  for  it  is  only  he  that  is  faith- 
ful over  a  few  things  who  will  be  made,  or  will  be 
happy  in  being  made,  ruler  over  many  things. 

Yours  ever, 

C.  K. 


ALTON    LOCKE 

TAILOR   AND    POET 


CHAPTER  I 
A  poet's   childhood 

1AM  a  Cockney  among  Cockneys.  Italy  and 
the  Tropics,  the  Highlands  and  Devonshire,  I 
know  only  in  dreams.  Even  the  Surrey  Hills,  of 
whose  loveliness  I  have  heard  so  much,  are  to  me 
a  distant  fairyland,  whose  gleaming  ridges  I  am 
worthy  only  to  behold  afar.  With  the  exception 
of  two  journeys,  never  to  be  forgotten,  my  knowl- 
edge of  England  is  bounded  by  the  horizon  which 
enriches  Richmond  Hill. 

My  earliest  recollections  are  of  a  suburban 
street;  of  its  jumble  of  little  shops  and  little  ter- 
races, each  exhibiting  some  fresh  variety  of  capri- 
cious ugliness ;  the  little  scraps  of  garden  before 
the  doors,  with  their  dusty,  stunted  lilacs  and  bal- 
sam poplars,  were  my  only  forests ;  my  only  wild 
animals,  the  dingy,  merry  sparrows,  who  quarrelled 
fearlessly  on  my  window-sill,  ignorant  of  trap  or 
gun.  From  my  earliest  childhood,  through  long 
nights  of  sleepless  pain,  as  the  midnight  bright- 
ened into  dawn,  and  the  glaring  lamps  grew  pale, 


132      Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

I  used  to  listen,  with  pleasant  awe,  to  the  ceaseless 
roll  of  the  market-wagons,  bringing  up  to  the 
great  city  the  treasures  of  the  gay  green  country, 
the  land  of  fruits  and  flowers,  for  which  I  have 
yearned  all  my  life  in  vain.  They  seemed  to  my 
boyish  fancy  mysterious  messengers  from  another 
world :  the  silent,  lonely  night,  in  which  they  were 
the  only  moving  things,  added  to  the  wonder.  I 
used  to  get  out  of  bed  to  gaze  at  them,  and  envy 
the  coarse  men  and  sluttish  women  who  attended 
them,  their  labor  among  verdant  plants  and  rich 
brown  mould,  on  breezy  slopes,  under  God's  own 
clear  sky.  I  fancied  that  they  learnt  what  I  knew 
I  should  have  learnt  there ;  I  knew  not  then  that 
*'  the  eye  only  sees  that  which  it  brings  with  it 
the  power  of  seeing."  When  will  their  eyes  be 
opened?  When  will  priests  go  forth  into  the 
highways  and  the  hedges,  and  preach  to  the 
ploughman  and  the  gypsy  the  blessed  news,  that 
there  too,  in  every  thicket  and  fallow-field,  is  the 
house  of  God,  —  there,  too,  the  gate  of  Heaven? 

I  do  not  complain  that  I  am  a  Cockney.  That, 
too,  is  God's  gift.  He  made  me  one,  that  I  might 
learn  to  feel  for  poor  wretches  who  sit  stifled  in 
reeking  garrets  and  workrooms,  drinking  in  disease 
with  every  breath,  —  bound  in  their  prison-house 
of  brick  and  iron,  with  their  own  funeral  pall 
hanging  over  them,  in  that  canopy  of  fog  and 
poisonous  smoke,  from  their  cradle  to  their  grave. 
I  have  drunk  of  the  cup  of  which  they  drink. 
And  so  I  have  learnt  —  if,  indeed,  I  have  learnt  — 
to  be  a  poet  —  a  poet  of  the  people.  That  honor, 
surely,  was  worth  buying  with  asthma,  and  rickets, 
and  consumption,  and  weakness,  and  —  worst  of 
all  to  me  —  with  ugliness.      It  was  God's  purpose 


A  Poet*s  Childhood  1 33 

about  me ;  and,  therefore,  all  circumstances  com- 
bined to  imprison  me  in  London.  I  used  once, 
when  I  worshipped  circumstance,  to  fancy  it  my 
curse,  Fate's  injustice  to  me,  which  kept  me  from 
developing  my  genius,  asserting  my  rank  among 
poets.  I  longed  to  escape  to  glorious  Italy,  or 
some  other  southern  climate,  where  natural  beauty 
would  have  become  the  very  element  which  I 
breathed ;  and  yet,  what  would  have  come  of 
that?  Should  I  not,  as  nobler  spirits  than  I  have 
done,  have  idled  away  my  life  in  Elysian  dreams, 
singing  out  like  a  bird  into  the  air,  inarticulately, 
purposeless,  for  mere  joy  and  fulness  of  heart; 
and  taking  no  share  in  the  terrible  questionings, 
the  terrible  strugglings  of  this  great,  awful,  blessed 
time  —  feeling  no  more  the  pulse  of  the  great 
heart  of  England  stirring  me?  I  used,  as  I  said,  to 
call  it  the  curse  of  circumstance  that  I  was  a  sickly, 
decrepit  Cockney.  My  mother  used  to  tell  me 
that  it  was  the  cross  which  God  had  given  me  to 
bear.  I  know  now  that  she  was  right  there.  She 
used  to  say  that  my  disease  was  God's  will.  I  do 
not  think,  though,  that  she  spoke  right  there  also. 
I  think  that  it  was  the  will  of  the  world  and  of  the 
devil,  of  man's  avarice  and  laziness  and  ignorance. 
And  so  would  my  readers,  perhaps,  had  they  seen 
the  shop  in  the  city  where  I  was  born  and  nursed, 
with  its  little  garrets  reeking  with  human  breath, 
its  kitchens  and  areas  with  noisome  sewers.  A 
sanitary  reformer  would  not  be  long  in  guessing 
the  cause  of  my  unhealthiness.  He  would  not  re- 
buke me  —  nor  would  she,  sweet  soul !  now  that 
she  is  at  rest  and  bliss  —  for  my  wild  longings  to 
escape,  for  my  envying  the  very  flies  and  sparrows 
their  wings  that  I  might  flee  miles  away  into  the 


134      Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

country,  and  breathe  the  air  of  heaven  once,  and 
die.     I  have  had  my  wish.    I  have  made  two  jour 
neys  far  away  into  the  country,  and   they  have 
been  enough  for  me. 

My  mother  was  a  widow.  My  father,  whom  I 
cannot  recollect,  was  a  small  retail  tradesman  in 
the  city.  He  was  unfortunate ;  and  when  he  died, 
my  mother  came  down,  and  lived  penuriously 
enough,  I  knew  not  how  till  I  grew  older,  down  in 
that  same  suburban  street.  She  had  been  brought 
up  an  Independent.  After  my  father's  death  she 
became  a  Baptist,  from  conscientious  scruples. 
She  considered  the  Baptists,  as  I  do,  as  the  only 
sect  who  thoroughly  embody  the  Calvinistic  doc- 
trines. She  held  it,  as  I  do,  an  absurd  and  im- 
pious thing  for  those  who  believe  mankind  to  be 
children  of  the  devil  till  they  have  been  con- 
sciously "  converted,"  to  baptize  unconscious  in- 
fants and  give  them  the  sign  of  God's  mercy  on 
the  mere  chance  of  that  mercy  being  intended  for 
them.  When  God  had  proved  by  converting 
them,  that  they  were  not  reprobate  and  doomed  to 
hell  by  His  absolute  and  eternal  will,  then,  and  not 
till  then,  dare  man  baptize  them  into  His  name. 
She  dared  not  palm  a  presumptuous  fiction  on 
herself,  and  call  it  "  charity."  So,  though  we  had 
both  been  christened  during  my  father's  lifetime, 
she  purposed  to  have  us  rebaptized,  if  ever  that 
happened  —  which,  in  her  sense  of  the  word,  never 
happened,  I  am  afraid,  to  me. 

She  gloried  in  her  dissent ;  for  she  was  sprung 
from  old  Puritan  blood,  which  had  flowed  again 
and  again  beneath  the  knife  of  Star-Chamber 
butchers,  and  on  the  battlefields  of  Naseby  and 
Sedgemoor.     And  on  winter  evenings  she  used  to 


A  Poet's  Childhood  135 

sit  with  her  Bible  on  her  knee,  while  I  and  my 
little  sister  Susan  stood  beside  her  and  listened 
to  the  stories  of  Gideon  and  Barak,  and  Samson 
and  Jephthah,  till  her  eye  kindled  up,  and  her 
thoughts  passed  forth  from  that  old  Hebrew  time 
home  into  those  English  times  which  she  fancied, 
and  not  untruly,  like  them.  And  we  used  to 
shudder,  and  yet  listen  with  a  strange  fascination, 
as  she  told  us  how  her  ancestor  called  his  seven 
sons  off  their  small  Cambridge  farm,  and  horsed 
and  armed  them  himself  to  follow  behind  Crom- 
well, and  smite  kings  and  prelates  with  "the  sword 
of  the  Lord  and  of  Gideon."  Whether  she  were 
right  or  wrong,  what  is  it  to  me  ?  What  is  it  now 
to  her,  thank  God?  But  those  stories,  and  the 
strict,  stern,  Puritan  education,  learnt  from  the 
Independents  and  not  the  Baptists,  which  accom- 
panied them,  had  their  effect  on  me,  for  good  and 
ill. 

My  mother  moved  by  rule  and  method;  by 
God's  law,  as  she  considered,  and  that  only. 
She  seldom  smiled.  Her  word  was  absolute. 
She  never  commanded  twice,  without  punishing. 
And  yet  there  were  abysses  of  unspoken  tender- 
ness in  her,  as  well  as  clear,  sound,  womanly  sense 
and  insight.  But  she  thought  herself  as  much 
bound  to  keep  down  all  tenderness  as  if  she  had 
been  some  ascetic  of  the  middle  ages  —  so  do 
extremes  meet !  It  was  "  carnal,"  she  considered. 
She  had  as  yet  no  right  to  have  any  "  spiritual 
affection  "  for  us.  We  were  still "  children  of  wrath 
and  of  the  devil,"  —  not  yet  "  convinced  of  sin," 
"converted,  born  again."  She  had  no  more  spirit- 
ual bond  with  us,  she  thought,  than  she  had  with 
a  heathen  or  a  Papist     She  dared  not  even  pray 


136      Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

for  our  conversion,  earnestly  as  she  prayed  on 
every  other  subject.  For  though  the  majority  of 
her  sect  would  have  done  so,  her  clear  logical 
sense  would  yield  to  no  such  tender  inconsistency. 
Had  it  not  been  decided  from  all  eternity?  We 
were  elect,  or  we  were  reprobate.  Could  her 
prayers  alter  that?  If  He  had  chosen  us.  He 
would  call    us    in  His    own  good  time;    and,    if 

not Only  again  and   again,  as  I  afterwards 

discovered  from  a  journal  of  hers,  she  used  to 
beseech  God  with  agonized  tears  to  set  her  mind 
at  rest  by  revealing  to  her  His  will  towards  us. 
For  that  comfort  she  could  at  least  rationally 
pray.  But  she  received  no  answer.  Poor,  beloved 
mother !  If  thou  couldst  not  read  the  answer, 
written  in  every  flower  and  every  sunbeam,  written 
in  the  very  fact  o*"  our  existence  here  at  all,  what 
answer  would  have  sufficed  thee? 

And  yet,  with  all  this,  she  kept  the  strictest 
watch  over  our  morality.  Fear,  of  course,  was 
the  only  motive  she  employed ;  for  how  could 
our  still  carnal  understandings  be  affected  with 
love  to  God?  And  love  to  herself  was  too  paltry 
and  temporary  to  be  urged  by  one  who  knew  that 
her  life  was  uncertain,  and  who  was  always  trying 
to  go  down  to  the  deepest  eternal  ground  and 
reason  of  everything,  and  take  her  stand  upon 
that.  So  our  god,  or  gods  rather,  till  we  were 
twelve  years  old,  were  hell,  the  rod,  the  ten  com- 
mandments, and  public  opinion.  Yet  under  them, 
not  they,  but  something  deeper  far,  both  in  her 
and  us,  preserved  us  pure.  Call  it  natural  charac- 
ter, conformation  of  the  spirit,  —  conformation  of 
the  brain,  if  you  like,  if  you  are  a  scientific  man 
and  a  phrenologist.     I  never  yet  could  dissect  and 


A  Poet's  Childhood  137 

map  out  my  own  being,  or  my  neighbor's,  as  you 
analysts  do.  To  me,  I  myself,  ay,  and  each  person 
round  me,  seem  one  inexplicable  whole ;  to  take 
away  a  single  faculty  whereof  is  to  destroy  the 
harmony,  the  meaning,  the  life  of  all  the  rest. 
That  there  is  a  duality  in  us  —  a  lifelong  battle 
—between  flesh  and  spirit  —  we  all,  alas  !  know  well 
enough ;  but  which  is  flesh  and  which  is  spirit, 
what  philosophers  in  these  days  can  tell  us?  Still 
less  had  we  two  found  out  any  such  duality  or 
discord  in  ourselves ;  for  we  were  gentle  and  obe- 
dient children.  The  pleasures  of  the  world  did 
not  tempt  us.  We  did  not  know  of  their  exist- 
ence; and  no  foundlings  educated  in  a  nunnery 
ever  grew  up  in  a  more  virginal  and  spotless  inno- 
cence —  if  ignorance  be  such  —  than  did  Susan 
and  I. 

The  narrowness  of  my  sphere  of  observation 
only  concentrated  the  faculty  into  greater  strength. 
The  few  natural  objects  which  I  met  —  and  they, 
of  course,  constituted  my  whole  outer  world  (for 
art  and  poetry  were  tabooed  both  by  my  rank  and 
my  mother's  sectarianism,  and  the  study  of  human 
beings  only  develops  itself  as  the  boy  grows  into 
the  man)  —  these  few  natural  objects,  L  say,  I 
studied  with  intense  keenness.  I  knew  every  leaf 
and  flower  in  the  little  front  garden ;  every  cab- 
bage and  rhubarb  plant  in  Battersea  fields  was 
wonderful  and  beautiful  to  me.  Clouds  and  water 
I  learned  to  delight  in,  from  my  occasional  lin- 
gerings  on  Battersea  bridge,  and  yearning  west- 
ward looks  toward  the  sun  setting  above  rich 
meadows  and  wooded  gardens,  to  me  a  forbidden 
El  Dorado. 

I  brought  home  wild-flowers  and  chance  beetles 

Vol.  Ill— 7 


138      Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

and  butterflies,  and  pored  over  them,  not  in  the 
spirit  of  a  naturalist,  but  of  a  poet.  They  were  to 
me  God's  angels  shining  in  coats  of  mail  and  fairy 
masquerading  dresses.  I  envied  them  their  beauty, 
their  freedom.  At  last  I  made  up  my  mind,  in  the 
simple  tenderness  of  a  child's  conscience,  that  it 
was  wrong  to  rob  them  of  the  liberty  for  which  I 
pined,  —  to  take  them  away  from  the  beautiful 
broad  country  whither  I  longed  to  follow  them ; 
and  I  used  to  keep  them  a  day  or  two,  and  then, 
regretfully,  carry  them  back,  and  set  them  loose 
on  the  first  opportunity,  with  many  compunctions 
of  heart,  when,  as  generally  happened,  they  had 
been  starved  to  death  in  the  meantime. 

They  were  my  only  recreations  after  the  hours 
of  the  small  day-school  at  the  neighboring  chapel, 
where  I  learnt  to  read,  write,  and  sum ;  except, 
now  and  then,  a  London  walk,  with  my  mother 
holding  my  hand  tight  the  whole  way.  She  would 
have  hoodwinked  me,  stopped  my  ears  with  cotton, 
and  led  me  in  a  string,  —  kind,  careful  soul !  —  if 
it  had  been  reasonably  safe  on  a  crowded  pave- 
ment, so  fearful  was  she  lest  I  should  be  polluted 
by  some  chance  sight  or  sound  of  the  Babylon 
which  she  feared  and  hated  —  almost  as  much  as 
she  did  the  Bishops. 

The  only  books  which  I  knew  were  the  "  Pil- 
grim's Progress  "  and  the  Bible.  The  former  was 
my  Shakespeare,  my  Dante,  my  Vedas,  by  which 
I  explained  every  fact  and  phenomenon  of  life. 
London  was  the  City  of  Destruction,  from  which  I 
was  to  flee ;  I  was  Christian ;  the  Wicket  of  the 
Way  of  Life  I  had  strangely  identified  with  the 
turnpike  at  Battersea  bridge  end  ;  and  the  rising 
ground  of  Mortlake  and  Wimbledon  was  the  Land 


A  Poet's  Childhood  1 39 

of  Beulah  —  the  Enchanted  Mountains  of  the  Shep- 
herds. If  I  could  once  get  there  I  was  saved :  a 
carnal  view,  perhaps,  and  a  childish  one ;  but 
there  was  a  dim  meaning  and  human  reality  in  it 
nevertheless. 

As  for  the  Bible,  I  knew  nothing  of  it  really, 
beyond  the^  Old  Testament.  Indeed,  the  life  of 
Christ  had  little  chance  of  becoming  interesting  to 
me.  My  mother  had  given  me  formally  to  under- 
stand that  it  spoke  of  matters  too  deep  for  me  ; 
that  "  till  converted,  the  natural  man  could  not 
understand  the  things  of  God " :  and  I  obtained 
little  more  explanation  of  it  from  the  two  unintel- 
ligible, dreary  sermons  to  which  I  listened  every 
dreary  Sunday,  in  terror  lest  a  chance  shuffle  of 
my  feet,  or  a  hint  of  drowsiness,  —  natural  result 
of  the  stifling  gallery  and  glaring  windows  and  gas 
lights,  —  should  bring  down  a  lecture  and  a  punish- 
ment when  I  returned  home.  Oh,  those  "  Sab- 
baths !  "  —  days,  not  of  rest,  but  utter  weariness, 
when  the  beetles  and  the  flowers  were  put  by,  and 
there  was  nothing  to  fill  up  the  long  vacuity  but 
books  of  which  I  could  not  understand  a  word : 
when  play,  laughter,  or  even  a  stare  out  of  window 
at  the  sinful,  merry.  Sabbath-breaking  prome- 
naders  were  all  forbidden,  as  if  the  commandment 
had  run,  "  In  it  thou  shalt-  take  no  manner  of 
amusement,  thou,  nor  thy  son,  nor  thy  daughter." 
By  what  strange  ascetic  perversion  has  that  got  to 
mean  "  keeping  holy  the  Sabbath  Day"? 

Yet  there  was  an  hour's  relief  in  the  evening, 
when  either  my  mother  told  us  Old  Testament 
stories,  or  some  preacher  or  two  came  in  to  supper 
after  meeting;  and  I  used  to  sit  in  the  corner  and 
listen  to  their  talk;   not  that  I  understood  a  word. 


140      Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

but  the  mere  struggle  to  understand  —  the  mere 
watching  my  mother's  earnest  face  —  my  pride  in 
the  reverent  flattery  with  which  the  worthy  men 
addressed  her  as  "  a  mother  in  Israel,"  were  enough 
to  fill  up  the  blank  for  me  till  bedtime. 

Of  "  vital  Christianity  "  I  heard  much  ;  but,  with 
all  my  efforts,  could  find  out  nothing.  Indeed,  it 
did  not  seem  interesting  enough  to  tempt  me  to 
find  out  much.  It  seemed  a  set  of  doctrines,  be- 
lieving in  which  was  to  have  a  magical  effect  on 
people,  by  saving  them  from  the  everlasting  tor- 
ture due  to  sins  and  temptations  which  I  had  never 
felt.  Now  and  then,  believing,  in  obedience  to  my 
mother's  assurances,  and  the  solemn  prayers  of  the 
ministers  about  me,  that  I  was  a  child  of  hell,  and 
a  lost  and  miserable  sinner,  I  used  to  have  accesses 
of  terror,  and  fancy  that  I  should  surely  wake  next 
morning  in  everlasting  flames.  Once  I  put  my 
finger  a  moment  into  the  fire,  as  certain  Papists, 
and  Protestants  too,  have  done,  not  only  to  them- 
selves, but  to  their  disciples,  to  see  if  it  would  be 
so  very  dreadfully  painful ;  with  what  conclusions 
the  reader  may  judge.  .  .  .  Still,  I  could  not  keep 
up  the  excitement.  Why  should  I?  The  fear  of 
pain  is  not  the  fear  of  sin,  that  I  know  of;  and, 
indeed,  the  thing  was  unreal  altogether  in  my  case, 
and  my  heart,  my  common  sense,  rebelled  against 
it  again  and  again  ;  till  at  last  I  got  a  terrible  whip- 
ping for  taking  my  little  sister's  part,  and  saying 
that  if  she  was  to  die,  —  so  gentle,  and  obedient, 
and  affectionate  as  she  was,  —  God  would  be  very 
unjust  in  sending  her  to  hell-fire,  and  that  I  was 
quite  certain  He  would  do  no  such  thing — unless 
He  were  the  Devil :  an  opinion  which  I  have  since 
seen  no  reason  to  change.    The  confusion  between 


A  Poet's  Childhood  141 

the  King  of  Hell  and  the  King  of  Heaven  has 
cleared  up,  thank  God,  since  then ! 

So  I  was  whipped  and  put  to  bed  —  the  whip- 
ping altering  my  secret  heart  just  about  as  much 
as  the  dread  of  hell-fire  did. 

I  speak  as  a  Christian  man  —  an  orthodox 
Churchman  (if  you  require  that  shibboleth).  Was 
I  so  very  wrong?  What  was  there  in  the  idea  of 
religion  which  was  represented  to  me  at  home  to 
captivate  me?  What  was  the  use  of  a  child's  hear- 
ing of  "  God's  great  love  manifested  in  the  scheme 
of  redemption,"  when  he  heard,  in  the  same  breath, 
that  the  effects  of  that  redemption  were  practically 
confined  only  to  one  human  being  out  of  a  thou- 
sand, and  that  the  other  nine  hundred  and  ninety- 
nine  were  lost  and  damned  from  their  birth-hour 
to  all  eternity  —  not  only  by  the  absolute  will  and 
reprobation  of  God  (though  that  infernal  blas- 
phemy I  heard  often  enough),  but  also,  putting 
that  out  of  the  question,  by  the  mere  fact  of  being 
born  of  Adam's  race?  And  this  to  a  generation 
to  whom  God's  love  shines  out  in  every  tree  and 
flower  and  hedge-side  bird ;  to  whom  the  daily 
discoveries  of  science  are  revealing  that  love  in 
every  microscopic  animalcule  which  peoples  the 
stagnant  pool !  This  to  workingmen,  whose  crav- 
ing is  only  for  some  idea  which  shall  give  equal 
hopes,  claims,  and  deliverances,  to  all  mankind 
alike !  This  to  workingmen,  who,  in  the  smiles 
of  their  innocent  children,  see  the  heaven  which 
they  have  lost  —  the  messages  of  baby-cherubs, 
made  in  God's  own  image !  This  to  me,  to  whom 
every  butterfly,  every  look  at  my  little  sister,  con- 
tradicted the  lie  !  You  may  say  that  such  thoughts 
were  too  deep  for  a  child ;  that  I  am  ascribing  to 


142      Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

my  boyhood  the  scepticism  of  my  manhood  ;  but 
it  is  not  so ;  and  what  went  on  in  my  mind  goes 
on  in  the  minds  of  thousands.  It  is  the  cause  of 
the  contempt  into  which  not  merely  sectarian 
Protestantism,  but  Christianity  altogether,  has 
fallen  in  the  minds  of  the  thinking  workmen. 
Clergymen  who  anathematize  us  for  wandering 
into  Unitarianism  —  you,  you  have  driven  us 
thither.  You  must  find  some  explanation  of  the 
facts  of  Christianity  more  in  accordance  with  the 
truths  which  we  do  know,  and  will  live  and  die  for, 
or  you  can  never  hope  to  make  us  Christians ;  or, 
if  we  do  return  to  the  true  fold,  it  will  be  as  I 
returned,  after  long,  miserable  years  of  darkling 
error,  to  a  higher  truth  than  most  of  you  have  yet 
learned  to  preach. 

But  those  old  Jewish  heroes  did  fill  my  whole 
heart  and  soul.  I  learnt  from  them  lessons  which 
I  never  wish  to  unlearn.  Whatever  else  I  saw 
about  them,  this  I  saw,  —  that  they  were  patriots, 
deliverers  from  that  tyranny  and  injustice  from 
which  the  child's  heart  —  "child  of  the  devil" 
though  you  may  call  him  —  instinctively,  and,  as 
I  believe,  by  a  divine  inspiration,  revolts.  Moses 
leading  his  people  out  of  Egypt;  Gideon,  Barak, 
and  Samson,  slaying  their  oppressors ;  David,  hid- 
ing in  the  mountains  from  the  tyrant,  with  his  little 
band  of  those  who  had  fled  from  the  oppressions 
of  an  aristocracy  of  Nabals ;  Jehu,  executing  God's 
vengeance  on  the  kings  —  they  were  my  heroes, 
my  models ;  they  mixed  themselves  up  with  the 
dim  legends  about  the  Reformation  martyrs,  Crom- 
well and  Hampden,  Sidney  and  Monmouth,  which 
I  had  heard  at  my  mother's  knee.  Not  that  the 
perennial  oppression  of  the  masses,  in  all  ages  and 


A  Poet's  Childhood  143 

countries,  had  yet  risen  on  me  as  an  awful,  tortur- 
ing, fixed  idea.  I  fancied,  poor  fool !  that  ti'ranny 
was  the  exception,  and  not  the  rule.  But  it  was 
the  mere  sense  of  abstract  pity  and  justice  which 
was  delighted  in  me.  I  thought  that  these  were 
old  fairy  tales,  such  as  never  need  be  realized 
again.     I  learnt  otherwise  in  after  years. 

I  have  often  wondered  since,  why  all  cannot  read 
the  same  lesson  as  I  did  in  those  old  Hebrew 
Scriptures  —  that  they,  of  all  books  in  the  world, 
have  been  wrested  into  proofs  of  the  divine  right 
of  kings,  the  eternal  necessity  of  slavery !  But  the 
eye  only  sees  what  it  brings  with  it  the  power  of 
seeing.  The  upper  classes,  from  their  first  day 
at  school,  to  their  last  day  at  college,  read  of 
nothing  but  the  glories  of  Salamis  and  Marathon, 
of  freedom  and  of  the  old  republics.  And  what 
comes  of  it?  No  more  than  their  tutors  know 
will  come  of  it,  when  they  thrust  into  the  boys' 
hands  books  which  give  the  lie  in  every  page  to 
their  own  political  superstitions. 

But  when  I  was  just  turned  of  thirteen,  an 
altogether  new  fairyland  was  opened  to  me  by  some 
missionary  tracts  and  journals,  which  were  lent  to 
my  mother  by  the  ministers.  Pacific  coral  islands 
and  volcanoes,  cocoa-nut  groves  and  bananas, 
graceful  savages  with  paint  and  feathers  —  what  an 
El  Dorado !  How  I  devoured  them  and  dreamt 
of  them,  and  went  there  in  fancy,  and  preached 
small  sermons  as  I  lay  in  my  bed  at  night  to  Tahi- 
tians  and  New  Zealanders,  though  I  confess  my 
spiritual  eyes  were,  just  as  my  physical  eyes  would 
have  been,  far  more  busy  with  the  scenery  than 
with  the  souls  of  my  audience.  However,  that 
was  the  place  for  me,  I  saw  clearly.     And  one  day, 


144     Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

I  recollect  it  well,  in  the  little  dingy,  foul,  reeking, 
twelve  foot  square  back-yard,  where  huge  smoky 
party-walls  shut  out  every  breath  of  air  and  almost 
all  the  light  of  heaven,  I  had  climbed  up  between 
the  waterbutt  and  the  angle  of  the  wall  for  the 
purpose  of  fishing  out  of  the  dirty  fluid  which  lay 
there,  crusted  with  soot  and  alive  with  insects,  to 
be  renewed  only  three  times  in  the  seven  days, 
some  of  the  great  larvae  and  kicking  monsters 
which  made  up  a  large  item  in  my  list  of  wonders : 
all  of  a  sudden  the  horror  of  the  place  came  over 
me;  those  grim  prison-walls  above,  with  their 
canopy  of  lurid  smoke ;  the  dreary,  sloppy,  broken 
pavement;  the  horrible  stench  of  the  stagnant 
cesspools ;  the  utter  want  of  form,  color,  life,  in  the 
whole  place,  crushed  me  down,  without  my  being 
able  to  analyze  my  feelings  as  I  can  now;  and 
then  came  over  me  that  dream  of  Pacific  Islands, 
and  the  free,  open  sea ;  and  I  slid  down  from  my 
perch,  and  bursting  into  tears  threw  myself  upon 
my  knees  in  the  court,  and  prayed  aloud  to  God 
to  let  me  be  a  missionary. 

Half  fearfully  I  let  out  my  wishes  to  my  mother 
when  she  came  home.  She  gave  me  no  answer; 
but,  as  I  found  out  afterwards,  —  too  late,  alas ! 
for  her,  if  not  for  me,  — she,  like  Mary,  had  "  laid 
up  all  these  things,  and  treasured  them  in  her 
heart." 

You  may  guess,  then,  my  delight  when,  a  few 
days  afterwards,  I  heard  that  a  real  live  missionary 
was  coming  to  take  tea  with  us.  A  man  who  had 
actually  been  in  New  Zealand  !  —  the  thought  was 
rapture.  I  painted  him  to  myself  over  and  over 
again ;  and  when,  after  the  first  burst  of  fancy,  I 
recollected  that  he  might  possibly  not  have  adopted 


A  Poet's  Childhood  145 

the  native  costume  of  that  island,  or,  if  he  had, 
that  perhaps  it  would  look  too  strange  for  him  to 
wear  it  about  London,  I  settled  within  myself  that 
he  was  to  be  a  tall,  venerable-looking  man,  like  the 
portraits  of  old  Puritan  divines  which  adorned  our 
day-room ;  and  as  I  had  heard  that  "  he  was  power- 
ful in  prayer,"  I  adorned  his  right  hand  with  that 
mystic  weapon  "  all-prayer,"  with  which  Christian, 
when  all  other  means  have  failed,  finally  van- 
quishes the  fiend  —  which  instrument,  in  my  mind, 
was  somewhat  after  the  model  of  an  infernal  sort 
of  bill  or  halbert  —  all  hooks,  edges,  spikes,  and 
crescents  —  which  I  had  passed,  shuddering,  once, 
in  the  hand  of  an  old  suit  of  armor  in  Wardour 
Street. 

He  came  —  and  with  him  the  two  ministers  who 
often  drank  tea  with  my  mother ;  both  of  whom, 
as  they  played  some  small  part  in  the  drama  of 
my  after-life,  I  may  as  well  describe  here.  The 
elder  was  a  little,  sleek,  silver-haired  old  man, 
with  a  blank,  weak  face,  just  like  a  white  rabbit. 
He  loved  me,  and  I  loved  him  too,  for  there  were 
always  lollipops  in  his  pocket  for  me  and  Susan. 
Had  his  head  been  equal  to  his  heart !  —  but  what 
has  been  was  to  be  —  and  the  dissenting  clergy, 
with  a  few  noble  exceptions  among  the  Indepen- 
dents, are  not  the  strong  men  of  the  day — none 
knew  that  better  than  the  workmen.  The  old 
man's  name  was  Bowyer.  The  other,  Mr.  VVig- 
ginton,  was  a  younger  man ;  tall,  grim,  dark, 
bilious,  with  a  narrow  forehead,  retreating  sud- 
denly from  his  eyebrows  up  to  a  conical  peak  of 
black  hair  over  his  ears.  He  preached  "  higher 
doctrine,"  i.  e.  more  fatalist  and  antinomian  than 
his  gentler  colleague,  —  and,  having  also  a  sten- 


146    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

torian  voice,  was  much  the  greater  favorite  at 
the  chapel.  I  hated  him  —  and  if  any  man  ever 
deserved  hatred,  he  did. 

Well,  they  came.  My  heart  was  in  my  mouth 
as  I  opened  the  door  to  them,  and  sank  back 
again  to  the  very  lowest  depths  of  my  inner  man 
when  my  eyes  fell  on  the  face  and  figure  of  the 
missionary  —  a  squat,  red-faced,  pig-eyed,  low- 
browed man,  with  great  soft  lips  that  opened  back 
to  his  very  ears :  sensuality,  conceit,  and  cunning 
marked  on  every  feature  —  an  innate  vulgarity, 
from  which  the  artisan  and  the  child  recoil  with 
an  instinct  as  true,  perhaps  truer,  than  that  of  the 
courtier,  showing  itself  in  every  tone  and  motion 
—  I  shrank  into  a  corner,  so  crestfallen  that  I 
could  not  even  exert  myself  to  hand  round  the 
bread  and  butter,  for  which  I  got  duly  scolded 
afterwards.  Oh  !  that  man  !  —  how  he  bawled  and 
contradicted,  and  laid  down  the  law,  and  spoke  to 
my  mother  in  a  fondling,  patronizing  way,  which 
made  me,  I  knew  not  why,  boil  over  with  jealousy 
and  indignation.  How  he  filled  his  teacup  half 
full  of  the  white  sugar  to  buy  which  my  mother 
had  curtailed  her  yesterday's  dinner  —  how  he 
drained  the  few  remaining  drops  of  the  three- 
pennyworth  of  cream,  with  which  Susan  was  steal- 
ing off  to  keep  it  as  an  unexpected  treat  for  my 
mother  at  breakfast  the  next  morning — how  he 
talked  of  the  natives,  not  as  St.  Paul  might  of  his 
converts,  but  as  a  planter  might  of  his  slaves; 
overlaying  all  his  unintentional  confessions  of  his 
own  greed  and  prosperity,  with  cant,  flimsy  enough 
for  even  a  boy  to  see  through,  while  his  eyes  were 
not  blinded  with  the  superstition  that  a  man  must 
be  pious  who  sufficiently  interlards  his  speech  with 


A  Poet's  Childhood  147 

a  jumble  of  old  English  picked  out  of  our  transla- 
tion of  the  New  Testament.  Such  was  the  man 
I  saw.  I  don't  deny  that  all  are  not  like  him.  I 
believe  there  are  noble  men  of  all  denominations, 
doing  their  best  according  to  their  light,  all  over 
the  world ;  but  such  was  the  one  I  saw  —  and  the 
men  who  were  sent  home  to  plead  the  missionary 
cause,  whatever  the  men  may  be  like  who  stay 
behind  and  work,  are,  from  my  small  experience, 
too  often  such.  It  appears  to  me  to  be  the  rule 
that  many  of  those  who  go  abroad  as  missionaries, 
go  simply  because  they  are  men  of  such  inferior 
powers  and  attainments  that  if  they  stayed  in 
England  they  would  starve. 

Three  parts  of  his  conversation,  after  all,  was 
made  up  of  abuse  of  the  missionaries  of  the 
Church  of  England,  not  for  doing  nothing,  but 
for  being  so  much  more  successful  than  his  own 
sect;  accusing  them,  in  the  same  breath,  of  being 
just  of  the  inferior  type  of  which  he  was  himself, 
and  also  of  being  mere  University  fine  gentlemen. 
Really,  I  do  not  wonder,  upon  his  own  showing, 
at  the  savages  preferring  them  to  him ;  and  I  was 
pleased  to  hear  the  old  white-headed  minister 
gently  interpose  at  the  end  of  one  of  his  tirades 
—  "We  must  not  be  jealous,  my  brother,  if  the 
Establishment  has  discovered  what  we,  I  hope, 
shall  find  out  some  day,  that  it  is  not  wise  to  draft 
our  missionaries  from  the  offscouring  of  the  min^ 
istry,  and  serve  God  with  that  which  costs  us 
nothing  except  the  expense  of  providing  for  them 
beyond  seas." 

There  was  somewhat  of  a  roguish  twinkle  in  the 
old  man's  eye  as  he  said  it,  which  emboldened  me 
to  whisper  a  question  to  him. 


148     Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

"  Why  is  it,  sir,  that  in  olden  times  the  heathens 
used  to  crucify  the  missionaries  and  burn  them, 
and  now  they  give  them  beautiful  farms,  and  build 
them  houses,  and  carry  them  about  on  their  backs  ?  " 

The  old  man  seemed  a  little  puzzled,  and  so  did 
the  company,  to  whom  he  smilingly  retailed  my 
question. 

As  nobody  seemed  inclined  to  offer  a  solution, 
I  ventured  one  myself. 

"  Perhaps  the  heathens  are  grown  better  than 
they  used  to  be?  " 

"  The  heart  of  man,"  answered  the  tall,  dark 
minister,  "  is,  and  ever  was,  equally  at  enmity  with 
God." 

"  Then,  perhaps,"  I  ventured  again,  "  what  the 
missionaries  preach  now  is  not  quite  the  same 
as  what  the  missionaries  used  to  preach  in  St. 
Paul's  time,  and  so  the  heathens  are  not  so  angry 
at  it?" 

My  mother  looked  thunder  at  me,  and  so  did  all 
except  my  white-headed  friend,  who  said,  gently 
enough  — 

"  It  may  be  that  the  child's  words  come  from 
God." 

Whether  they  did  or  not,  the  child  took  very 
good  care  to  speak  no  more  words  till  he  was 
alone  with  his  mother ;  and  then  finished  off  that 
disastrous  evening  by  a  punishment  for  the  inde- 
cency of  saying,  before  his  little  sister,  that  he 
thought  it  "  a  great  pity  the  missionaries  taught 
black  people  to  wear  ugly  coats  and  trousers; 
they  must  have  looked  so  much  handsomer  run- 
ning about  with  nothing  on  but  feathers  and 
strings  of  shells." 

So  the  missionary  dream  died  out  of  me,  by  a 


A  Poet's  Childhood  149 

foolish  and  illogical  antipathy  enough ;  though, 
after  all,  it  was  a  child  of  my  imagination  only,  not 
of  my  heart ;  and  the  fancy,  having  bred  it,  was 
able  to  kill  it  also.  And  David  became  my  ideal. 
To  be  a  shepherd-boy,  and  sit  among  beautiful 
mountains,  and  sing  hymns  of  my  own  making,  and 
kill  lions  and  bears,  with  now  and  then  the  chance 
of  a  stray  giant  —  what  a  glorious  life !  And  if 
David  slew  giants  with  a  sling  and  a  stone,  why 
should  not  I?  —  at  all  events,  one  ought  to  know 
how;  so  I  made  a  sling  out  of  an  old  garter  and 
some  string,  and  began  to  practise  in  the  little 
back-yard.  But  my  first  shot  broke  a  neighbor's 
window,  value  sevenpence,  and  the  next  flew  back 
in  my  face,  and  cut  my  head  open ;  so  I  was  sent 
supperless  to  bed  for  a  week,  till  the  sevenpence 
had  been  duly  saved  out  of  my  hungry  stomach  — 
and,  on  the  whole,  I  found  the  hymn-writing  side 
of  David's  character  the  more  feasible ;  so  I  tried, 
and  with  much  brains-beating,  committed  the  fol- 
lowing lines  lo  a  scrap  of  dirty  paper.  And  it  was 
strangely  significant,  that  in  this,  my  first  attempt, 
there  was  an  instinctive  denial  of  the  very  doctrine 
of  "  particular  redemption,"  which  I  had  been 
hearing  all  my  life,  and  an  instinctive  yearning 
after  the  very  Being  in  whom  I  had  been  told  I 
had  "  no  part  nor  lot "  till  I  was  "  converted." 
Here  they  are.  I  am  not  ashamed  to  call  them  — 
doggerel  though  they  be  —  an  inspiration  from 
Him  of  whom  they  speak.  If  not  from  Him,  good 
readers,  from  whom  ? 

Jesus,  He  loves  one  and  all ; 
Jesus,  He  loves  children  small ; 
Their  souls  are  sitting  round  His  feet, 
On  high,  before  His  mercy-seat 


150     Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

When  on  earth  He  walked  in  shame, 
Children  small  unto  Him  came  ; 
At  His  feet  they  knelt  and  prayed, 
On  their  heads  His  hands  He  laid. 

Came  a  spirit  on  them  then. 
Greater  than  of  mighty  men ; 
A  spirit  gentle,  meek,  and  mild, 
A  spirit  good  for  king  and  child. 

Oh  !  that  spirit  give  to  me, 
Jesus,  Lord,  where'er  I  be  1 
So 

But  I  did  not  finish  them,  not  seeing  very  clearly 
what  to  do  with  that  spirit  when  I  obtained  it ;  for, 
indeed,  it  seemed  a  much  finer  thing  to  fight  ma- 
terial Apollyons  with  material  swords  of  iron,  like 
my  friend  Christian,  or  to  go  bear  and  lion  hunting 
with  David,  than  to  convert  heathens  by  meekness 
—  at  least,  if  true  meekness  was  at  all  like  that  of 
the  missionary  whom  I  had  lately  seen. 

I  showed  the  verses  in  secret  to  my  little  sister. 
My  mother  heard  us  singing  them  together,  and 
extorted,  grimly  enough,  a  confession  of  the 
authorship.  I  expected  to  be  punished  for  them 
(I  was  accustomed  weekly  to  be  punished  for  all 
sorts  of  deeds  and  words,  of  the  harmfulness  of 
which  I  had  not  a  notion).  It  was,  therefore,  an 
agreeable  surprise  when  the  old  minister,  the  next 
Sunday  evening,  patted  my  head,  and  praised  me 
for  them. 

"  A  hopeful  sign  of  young  grace,  brother,"  said 
he  to  the  dark  tall  man.  "  May  we  behold  here 
an  infant  Timothy !  " 

"Bad  doctrine,  brother,  in  that  first  line  —  bad 
doctrine,  which  I  am  sure  he  did  not  learn  from 
our   excellent   sister   here.     Remember,  my  boy, 


A  Poet's  Childhood  151 

henceforth,  that  Jesus  does  not  love  one  and  all  — 
not  that  I  am  angry  with  you.  The  carnal  mind 
cannot  be  expected  to  understand  divine  things, 
any  more  than  the  beasts  that  perish.  Nevertheless, 
the  blessed  message  of  the  Gospel  stands  true,  that" 
Christ  loves  none  but  His  Bride,  the  Church.  His 
merits,  my  poor  child,  extend  to  none  but  the 
elect.  Ah !  my  dear  sister  Locke,  how  delightful 
to  think  of  the  narrow  way  of  discriminating  grace ! 
How  it  enhances  the  believer's  view  of  his  own 
exceeding  privileges,  to  remember  that  there  be 
few  that  be  saved  !  " 

I  said  nothing.  I  thought  myself  only  too  lucky 
to  escape  so  well  from  the  danger  of  having  done 
anything  out  of  my  own  head.  But  somehow 
Susan  and  I  never  altered  it  when  we  sang  it  to 
ourselves. 

I  thought  it  necessary,  for  the  sake  of  those  who 
might  read  my  story,  to  string  together  these  few 
scattered  recollections  of  my  boyhood,  —  to  give, 
as  it  were,  some  sample  of  the  cotyledon  leaves  of 
my  young  life-plant,  and  of  the  soil  in  which  it  took 
root,  ere  it  was  transplanted  —  but  I  will  not  fore- 
stall my  sorrows.  After  all,  they  have  been  but 
types  of  the  woes  of  thousands  who  "  die  and  give 
no  sign."  Those  to  whom  the  struggles  of  every, 
even  the  meanest,  human  being  are  scenes  of  an 
awful  drama,  every  incident  of  which  is  to  be 
noted  with  reverent  interest,  will  not  find  them  void 
of  meaning;  while  the  life  which  opens  in  my  next 
chapter  is,  perhaps,  full  enough  of  mere  dramatic 
interest  (and  whose  life  is  not,  were  it  but  truly 
written?)  to  amuse  merely  as  a  novel.  Ay,  grim 
and  real  is  the  action   and  suffering  which  begins 


152     Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

with  my  next  page,  —  as  you  yourself  would  have 
found,  high-born  reader  (if  such  chance  to  light 
upon  this  story),  had  you  found  yourself  at  fifteen, 
after  a  youth  of  convent-like  seclusion,  settled, 
apparently  for  life  —  in  a  tailor's  workshop. 

Ay  —  laugh !  —  we  tailors  can  quote  poetrj'  as 
well  as  make  your  court-dresses  — 

You  sit  in  a  cloud  and  sing,  like  pictured  angels, 
And  say  the  world  runs  smooth  —  while  right  below 
Welters  the  black  fermenting  heap  of  griefs 
Whereon  your  state  is  built.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  TAILOR'S  WORKROOM 

HAVE  you  done  laughing !  Then  I  will  tell 
you  how  the  thing  came  to  pass. 
My  father  had  a  brother,  who  had  steadily  risen 
in  life,  in  proportion  as  my  father  fell.  They  had 
both  begun  life  in  a  grocer's  shop.  My  father 
saved  enough  to  marry,  when  of  middle  age,  a 
woman  of  his  own  years,  and  set  up  a  little  shop, 
where  there  were  far  too  many  such  already,  in  the 
hope  —  to  him,  as  to  the  rest  of  the  world,  quite 
just  and  innocent  —  of  drawing  away  as  much  as 
possible  of  his  neighbors'  custom.  He  failed, 
died  —  as  so  many  small  tradesmen  do  —  of  bad 
debts  and  a  broken  heart,  and  left  us  beggars. 
His  brother,  more  prudent,  had,  in  the  meantime, 
risen  to  be  foreman;  then  he  married,  on  the 
strength  of  his  handsome  person,  his  master's 
blooming  widow ;  and  rose  and  rose,  year  by  year, 
till,  at  the  time  of  which  I  speak,  he  was  owner  of 
a  first-rate  grocery  establishment  in  the  City,  and  a 
pleasant  villa  near  Heme  Hill,  and  had  a  son,  a 
year  or  two  older  than  myself,  at  King's  College, 
preparing  for  Cambridge  and  the  Church  —  that 
being  nowadays  the  approved  method  of  convert- 
ing a  tradesman's  son  into  a  gentleman,  — whereof 
let  artisans,  and  gentlemen  also,  take  note. 


154    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

My  aristocratic  readers  —  if  I  ever  get  any, 
which  I  pray  God  I  may  —  may  be  surprised  at 
so  great  an  inequality  of  fortune  between  tvvo 
cousins ;  but  the  thing  is  common  in  our  class.  In 
the  higher  ranks,  a  difference  in  income  implies 
none  in  education  or  manners,  and  the  poor  "  gen- 
tleman "  is  a  fit  companion  for  dukes  and  princes  — 
thanks  to  the  old  usages  of  Norman  chivalry, 
which  after  all  were  a  democratic  protest  against 
the  sovereignty,  if  not  of  rank,  at  least  of  money. 
The  knight,  however  penniless,  was  the  prince's 
equal,  even  his  superior,  from  whose  hands  he 
must  receive  knighthood ;  and  the  "  squire  of  low 
degree,"  who  honorably  earned  his  spurs,  rose  also 
into  that  guild,  whose  qualifications,  however  bar- 
baric, were  still  higher  ones  than  any  which  the 
pocket  gives.  But  in  the  commercial  classes 
money  most  truly  and  fearfully  "  makes  the  man." 
A  difference  in  income,  as  you  go  lower,  makes 
more  and  more  difference  in  the  supply  of  the 
common  necessaries  of  life ;  and  worse  —  in  edu- 
cation and  manners,  in  all  which  polishes  the  man, 
till  you  may  see  often,  as  in  my  case,  one  cousin  a 
Cambridge  undergraduate,  and  the  other  a  tailor's 
journeyman. 

My  uncle  one  day  came  down  to  visit  us,  resplen- 
dent in  a  black  velvet  waistcoat,  thick  gold  chain, 
and  acres  of  shirt-front;  and  I  and  Susan  were 
turned  to  feed  on  our  own  curiosity  and  awe  in  the 
back-yard,  while  he  and  my  mother  were  closeted 
together  for  an  hour  or  so  in  the  living-room. 
When  he  was  gone,  my  mother  called  me  in,  and 
with  eyes  which  would  have  been  tearful  had  she 
allowed  herself  such  a  weakness  before  us,  told  me 
very  solemnly  and  slowly,  as  if  to  impress  upon  me 


The  Tailor's  Workroom  155 

the  awfulness  of  the  matter,  that  I  was  to  be  sent 
to  a  tailor's  workrooms  the  next  day. 

And  an  awful  step  it  was  in  her  eyes,  as  she  laid 
her  hands  on  my  head  and  murmured  to  herself, 
"  Behold,  I  send  you  forth  as  a  lamb  in  the  midst 
of  wolves.  Be  ye,  therefore,  wise  as  serpents,  and 
harmless  as  doves."  And  then,  rising  hastily  to 
conceal  her  own  emotion,  fled  upstairs,  where  we 
could  hear  her  throw  herself  on  her  knees  by  the 
bedside,  and  sob  piteously. 

That  evening  was  spent  dolefully  enough,  in  a 
sermon  of  warnings  against  all  manner  of  sins  and 
temptations,  the  very  names  of  which  I  had  never 
heard,  but  to  which,  as  she  informed  me,  I  was 
by  my  fallen  nature  altogether  prone;  and  right 
enough  was  she  in  so  saying,  though,  as  often 
happens,  the  temptations  from  which  I  was  in 
real  danger  were  just  the  ones  of  which  she  had 
no  notion — fighting  more  or  less  extinct  Satans, 
as  Mr.  Carlyle  says,  and  quite  unconscious  of  the 
real,  modern,  man-devouring  Satan  close  at  her 
elbow. 

To  me,  in  spite  of  all  the  terror  which  she  tried 
to  awaken  in  me,  the  change  was  not  unwelcome ; 
at  all  events,  it  promised  me  food  for  my  eyes  and 
my  ears,  —  some  escape  from  the  narrow  cage  in 
which,  though  I  hardly  dare  confess  it  to  myself,  I 
was  beginning  to  pine.  Little  I  dreamt  to  what  a 
darker  cage  I  was  to  be  translated  !  Not  that  I 
accuse  my  uncle  of  neglect  or  cruelty,  though  the 
thing  was  altogether  of  his  commanding.  He  was 
as  generous  to  us  as  society  required  him  to  be. 
We  were  entirely  dependent  on  him,  as  my  mother 
told  me  then  for  the  first  time,  for  support.  And 
had  he  not  a  right  to  dispose  of  my  person,  having 


156     Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

bought  it  by  an  allowance  to  my  mother  of  five-and- 
twenty  pounds  a  year?  I  did  not  forget  that  fact; 
the  thought  of  my  dependence  on  him  rankled  in 
me,  till  it  almost  bred  hatred  in  me  to  a  man  who 
had  certainly  never  done  or  meant  anything  to  me 
but  in  kindness.  For  what  could  he  make  me  but 
a  tailor  —  or  a  shoemaker  ?  A  pale,  consumptive, 
rickety,  weakly  boy,  all  forehead  and  no  muscle  — 
have  not  clothes  and  shoes  been  from  time  imme- 
morial the  appointed  work  of  such  ?  The  fact  that 
that  weakly  frame  is  generally  compensated  by  a 
proportionally  increased  activity  of  brain,  is  too 
unimportant  to  enter  into  the  calculations  of  the 
great  King  Laissez-faire.  Well,  my  dear  Society, 
it  is  you  that  suffer  for  the  mistake,  after  all,  more 
than  we.  If  you  do  tether  your  cleverest  artisans 
on  tailors'  shopboards  and  cobblers'  benches,  and 
they  —  as  sedentary  folk  will  —  fall  a  thinking,  and 
come  to  strange  conclusions  thereby,  they  really 
ought  to  be  much  more  thankful  to  you  than  you 
are  to  them.  If  Thomas  Cooper  had  passed  his 
first  five-and-twenty  years  at  the  plough  tail  instead 
of  the  shoemaker's  awl,  many  words  would  have 
been  left  unsaid  which,  once  spoken,  workingmen 
are  not  likely  to  forget. 

With  a  beating  heart  I  shambled  along  by  my 
mother's  side  next  day  to  Mr.  Smith's  shop,  in  a 
street  off  Piccadilly ;  and  stood  by  her  side,  just 
within  the  door,  waiting  till  some  one  would  con- 
descend to  speak  to  us,  and  wondering  when  the 
time  would  come  when  I,  like  the  gentleman  who 
skipped  up  and  down  the  shop,  should  shine 
glorious  in  patent-leather  boots,  and  a  blue  satin 
tie  sprigged  with  gold. 

Two  personages,  both  equally  magnificent,  stood 


The  Tailor's  Workroom  157 

talking  with  their  backs  to  us  ;  and  my  mother,  in 
doubt,  like  myself,  as  to  which  of  them  was  the 
tailor,  at  last  summoned  up  courage  to  address  the 
wrong  one,  by  asking  if  he  were  Mr.  Smith. 

The  person  addressed  answered  by  a  most 
polite  smile  and  bow,  and  assured  her  that  he  had 
not  that  honor ;  while  the  other  he-he'ed,  evi- 
dently a  little  flattered  by  the  mistake,  and  then 
uttered  in  a  tremendous  voice  these  words  — 

"  I  have  nothing  for  you,  my  good  woman  —  go. 
Mr.  Elliot !  how  did  you  come  to  allow  these  people 
to  get  into  the  establishment?  " 

"  My  name  is  Locke,  sir,  and  I  was  to  bring  my 
son  here  this  morning." 

"  Oh  —  ah  !  —  Mr.  Elliot,  see  to  these  persons. 
As  I  was  saying,  my  lard,  the  crimson  velvet  suit, 
about  thirty-five  guineas.  By  the  bye,  that  coat 
ours?  I  thought  so  —  idea  grand  and  light  — 
masses  well  broken  —  very  fine  chiaroscuro  about 
the  whole  —  an  aristocratic  wrinkle  just  above  the 
hips — which  I  flatter  myself  no  one  but  myself 
and  my  friend  Mr.  Cooke  really  do  understand. 
The  vapid  smoothness  of  the  door  dummy,  my 
lard,  should  be  confined  to  the  regions  of  the 
Strand.  Mr.  Elliot,  where  are  you?  Just  be  so 
good  as  to  show  his  lardship  that  lovely  new  thing 
in  drab  and  blue fonc^.  Ah!  your  lardship  can't 
wait.  —  Now,  my  good  woman,  is  this  the  young 
man?" 

"  Yes,"  said  my  mother:  "  and  —  and  —  God 
deal  so  with  you,  sir,  as  you  deal  with  the  widow 
and  the  orphan." 

"  Oh  —  ah  —  that  will  depend  very  much,  I 
should  say,  on  how  the  widow  and  the  orphan 
deal  with  me.     Mr.  Elliot,  take  this  person  into 


158     Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

the  office  and  transact  the  little  formalities  with 
her.  Jones,  take  the  young  man  upstairs  to  the 
workroom." 

I  stumbled  after  Mr.  Jones  up  a  dark,  narrow, 
iron  staircase  till  we  emerged  through  a  trap-door 
into  a  garret  at  the  top  of  the  house.  I  recoiled 
with  disgust  at  the  scene  before  me ;  and  here  I  was 
to  work  —  perhaps  through  life  1  A  low  lean-to 
room,  stifling  me  with  the  combined  odors  of  hu- 
man breath  and  perspiration,  stale  beer,  the  sweet 
sickly  smell  of  gin,  and  the  sour  and  hardly  less  dis- 
gusting one  of  new  cloth.  On  the  floor,  thick  with 
dust  and  dirt,  scraps  of  stuff  and  ends  <-f  thread,  sat 
some  dozen  haggard,  untidy,  shoeless  men,  with  a 
mingled  look  of  care  and  recklessness  that  made 
me  shudder.  The  windows  were  tight  closed  to 
keep  out  the  cold  winter  air ;  and  the  condensed 
breath  ran  in  streams  down  the  panes,  chequering 
the  dreary  outlook  of  chimney-tops  and  smoke. 
The  conductor  handed  me  over  to  one  of  the  men. 

"  Here,  Crossthwaite,  take  this  younker  and 
make  a  tailor  of  him.  Keep  him  next  you,  and 
prick  him  up  with  your  needle  if  he  shirks." 

He  disappeared  down  the  trap-door,  and  mechan- 
ically, as  if  in  a  dream,  I  sat  down  by  the  man 
and  listened  to  his  instructions,  kindly  enough 
bestowed.  But  I  did  not  remain  in  peace  two 
minutes.  A  burst  of  chatter  rose  as  the  foreman 
vanished,  and  a  tall,  bloated,  sharp-nosed  young 
man  next  me  bawled  in  my  ear  — 

"  I  say,  young  'un,  fork  out  the  tin  and  pay  your 
footing  at  Conscrumption  hospital." 

*•  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Ain't  he  just  green?  —  Down  with  the  stumpy 
—  a  tizzy  for  a  pot  of  half-and-half." 


The  Tailor's  Workroom  159 

"  I  never  drink  beer." 

"  Then  never  do,"  whispered  the  man  at  my  side ; 
"  as  sure  as  hell 's  hell,  it 's  your  only  chance." 

There  was  a  fierce,  deep  earnestness  in  the  tone 
which  made  me  look  up  at  the  speaker,  but  the 
other  instantly  chimed  in  — 

"  Oh,  yer  don't,  don't  yer,  my  young  Father 
Mathy?  then  yer '11  soon  learn  it  here  if  yer  want 
to  keep  yer  victuals  down." 

"  And  I  have  promised  to  take  my  wages  home 
to  my  mother." 

"  Oh  criminy !  hark  to  that,  my  coves  !  here  's  a 
chap  as  is  going  to  take  the  blunt  home  to  his 
mammy." 

"  'T  ain't  much  of  it  the  old  un  '11  see,"  said  an- 
other. "  Ven  yer  pockets  it  at  the  Cock  and  Bottle, 
my  kiddy,  yer  won't  find  much  of  it  left  o'  Sunday 
mornings." 

"  Don't  his  mother  know  he 's  out? "  asked 
another,  "  and  won't  she  know  it  — 

Ven  he  's  sitting  in  his  glory 
Half-price  at  the  Victory. 

Oh!  no,  ve  never  mentions  her  —  her  name  is 
never  heard.  Certainly  not,  by  no  means.  Why 
should  it?" 

"  Well,  if  yer  won't  stand  a  pot,"  quoth  the  tall 
man,  "  I  will,  that 's  all,  and  blow  temperance.  *  A 
short  life  and  a  merry  one,'  says  the  tailor  — 

The  ministers  talk  a  great  deal  about  port, 
And  they  makes  Cape  wine  very  dear, 

But  blow  their  hi's  if  ever  they  tries 
To  deprive  a  poor  cove  of  his  beer. 

Here,  Sam,  run  to  the  Cock  and  Bottle  for  a  pot 
of  half-and-half  to  my  score." 


i6o    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

A  thin,  pale  lad  jumped  up  and  vanished,  while 
my  tormentor  turned  to  me  — 

"  I  say,  young  'un,  do  you  know  why  we  're 
nearer  heaven  here  than  our  neighbors?" 

"  I  should  n't  have  thought  so,"  answered  I,  with 
a  natveti  which  raised  a  laugh,  and  dashed  the  tall 
man  for  a  moment. 

"  Yer  don't?  then  I'll  tell  yer.  A  cause  we're 
a  top  of  the  house  in  the  first  place,  and  next 
place  yer  '11  die  here  six  months  sooner  nor  if  yer 
worked  in  the  room  below.  Ain't  that  logic  and 
science.  Orator?  "  appealing  to  Crossthwaite. 

"Why?"  asked  I. 

"  A  cause  you  get  all  the  other  floors'  stinks  up 
here  as  well  as  your  own.  Concentrated  essence 
of  man's  flesh,  is  this  here  as  you  're  a  breathing. 
Cellar  workroom  we  calls  Rheumatic  ward,  because 
of  the  damp.  Groundfloor's  Fever  ward  —  them 
as  don't  get  typhus  gets  dysentery,  and  them  as 
don't  get  dysentery  gets  typhus  —  your  nose  'd 
tell  yer  why  if  you  opened  the  back  windy.  First 
floor's  Ashmy  ward  —  don't  you  hear'um  now 
through  the  cracks  in  the  boards,  a  puffing  away 
like  a  nest  of  young  locomotives?  And  this  here 
most  august  and  uppercrust  cockloft  is  the  Con- 
scrumptive  hospital.  First  you  begins  to  cough, 
then  you  proceeds  to  expectorate  —  spittoons,  as 
you  see,  perwided  free  gracious  for  nothing  — 
fined  a  kivarten  if  you  spits  on  the  floor  — 

Then  your  cheeks  they  grows  red,  and  your  nose  it  grows 

thin, 
And  your  bones  they  stick  out,  till  they  comes  through  your 

skin : 

and  then,  when  you  've  sufficiently  covered  the  poor 
dear  shivering  bare  backs  of  the  hairystocracy  — 


The  Tailor's  Workroom  i6i 

Die,  die,  die. 

Away  you  fly, 

Your  soul  is  in  the  sky  i 

as  the  hinspired  Shakespeare  wittily  remarks." 

And  the  ribald  lay  down  on  his  back,  stretched 
himself  out,  and  pretended  to  die  in  a  fit  of  cough- 
ing, which  last  was,  alas !  no  counterfeit,  while 
poor  I,  shocked  and  bewildered,  let  my  tears  fall 
fast  upon  my  knees. 

"  Fine  him  a  pot ! "  roared  one,  "  for  talking  about 
kicking  the  bucket.  He's  a  nice  young  man  to 
keep  a  cove's  spirits  up,  and  talk  about  '  a  short 
life  and  a  merry  one.'  Here  comes  the  heavy. 
Hand  it  here  to  take  the  taste  of  that  fellow's  talk 
out  of  my  mouth." 

"  Well,  my  young  *un,"  recommenced  my  tor- 
mentor, "  and  how  do  you  like  your  company?  " 

"  Leave  the  boy  alone,"  growled  Crossthwaite ; 
*' don't  you  see  he  's  crying?  " 

"  Is  that  anything  good  to  eat  ?  Give  me  some 
on  it  if  it  is — it'll  save  me  washing  my  face." 
And  he  took  hold  of  my  hair  and  pulled  my  head 
back. 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what,  Jemmy  Downes,"  said  Cross- 
thwaite, in  a  voice  which  made  him  draw  back, 
"  if  you  don't  drop  that,  I  '11  give  you  such  a  taste 
of  my  tongue  as  shall  turn  you  blue." 

"  You  'd  better  try  it  on  then.  Do  —  only  just 
now  —  if  you  please." 

"  Be  quiet,  you  fool !  "  said  another.  **  You  're 
a  pretty  fellow  to  chaff  the  orator.  He'll  slang 
you  up  the  chimney  afore  you  can  get  your 
shoes  on." 

*'  Fine  him  a  kivarten  for  quarrelling,"  cried 
another;  and  the  bully  subsided  into  a  minute's 

Vol.  LU— « 


i62    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

silence,  after  a  sotto  voce  —  "  Blow  temperance,  and 
blow  all  Chartists,  say  I !  "  and  then  delivered  him- 
self of  his  feelings  in  a  doggerel  song  — 

"  Some  folks  leads  coves  a  dance. 
With  their  pledge  of  temperance. 

And  their  plans  for  donkey  sociation ; 

And  their  pockets  full  they  crams 
By  their  patriotic  flams, 

And  then  swears  't  is  for  the  good  of  the  nation. 

"  But  I  don't  care  two  inions 
For  political  opinions, 
While  I  can  stand  my  heavy  and  my  quartern; 
For  to  drown  dull  care  within, 
In  baccy,  beer,  and  gin, 
Is  the  prime  of  a  working-tailor's  fortin  ! 

There  *s  common  sense  for  yer  now ;  hand  the  pot 
here." 

I  recollect  nothing  more  of  that  day,  except  that 
I  bent  myself  to  my  work  with  assiduity  enough  to 
earn  praises  from  Crossthwaite.  It  was  to  be  done, 
and  I  did  it.  The  only  virtue  I  ever  possessed  (if 
virtue  it  be)  is  the  power  of  absorbing  my  whole 
heart  and  mind  in  the  pursuit  of  the  moment,  how- 
ever dull  or  trivial,  if  there  be  good  reason  why  it 
should  be  pursued  at  all. 

I  owe,  too,  an  apology  to  my  readers  for  intro- 
ducing all  this  ribaldry.  God  knows,  it  is  as  little 
to  my  taste  as  it  can  be  to  theirs,  but  the  thing 
exists;  and  those  who  live,  if  not  by,  yet  still 
beside  such  a  state  of  things,  ought  to  know  what 
the  men  are  like  to  whose  labor,  ay,  life  blood, 
they  owe  their  luxuries.  They  are  "  their  brothers' 
keepers,"  let  them  deny  it  as  they  will.  Thank  God, 
many  are  finding  that  out;  and  the  morals  of  the 
working  tailors,  as  well  as  of  other  classes  of  arti- 


The  Tailor's  Workroom  163 

sans,  are  rapidly  improving :  a  change  which  has 
been  brought  about  partly  by  the  wisdom  and  kind- 
ness of  a  few  master  tailors,  who  have  built  work- 
shops fit  for  human  beings,  and  have  resolutely 
stood  out  against  the  iniquitous  and  destructive 
alterations  in  the  system  of  employment.  Among 
them  I  may,  and  will,  whether  they  like  it  or  not, 
make  honorable  mention  of  Mr.  Willis,  of  St. 
James's  Street,  and  Mr.  Stultz,  of  Bond  Street. 

But  nine-tenths  of  the  improvement  has  been 
owing,  not  to  the  masters,  but  to  the  men  them- 
selves ;  and  who  among  them,  my  aristocratic 
readers,  do  you  think,  have  been  the  great  preach- 
ers and  practisers  of  temperance,  thrift,  charity, 
self-respect,  and  education.  Who  ?  —  shriek  not 
in  your  Belgravian  saloons  —  the  Chartists;  the 
communist  Chartists :  upon  whom  you  and  your 
venal  press  heap  every  kind  of  cowardly  execra- 
tion and  ribald  slander.  You  have  found  out  many 
things  since  Peterloo ;  add  that  fact  to  the  number. 

It  may  seem  strange  that  I  did  not  tell  my 
mother  into  what  a  pandemonium  I  had  fallen, 
and  got  her  to  deliver  me ;  but  a  delicacy,  which 
was  not  all  evil,  kept  me  back;  I  shrank  from 
seeming  to  dislike  to  earn  my  daily  bread,  and 
still  more  from  seeming  to  object  to  what  she  had 
appointed  for  me.  Her  will  had  been  always  law ; 
it  seemed  a  deadly  sin  to  dispute  it.  I  took  for 
granted,  too,  that  she  knew  what  the  place  was 
like,  and  that,  therefore,  it  must  be  right  for  me. 
And  when  I  came  home  at  night,  and  got  back  to 
my  beloved  missionary  stories,  I  gathered  materials 
enough  to  occupy  my  thoughts  during  the  next 
day's  work,  and  make  me  blind  and  deaf  to  all  the 
evil  around  me.     My  mother,  poor  dear  creature, 


164    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

would  have  denounced  my  day-dreams  sternly 
enough,  had  she  known  of  their  existence;  but 
were  they  not  holy  angels  from  heaven?  guardians 
sent  by  that  Father,  whom  I  had  been  taught  not 
to  believe  in,  to  shield  my  senses  from  pollution? 

I  was  ashamed,  too,  to  mention  to  my  mother 
the  wickedness  which  I  saw  and  heard.  With  the 
delicacy  of  an  innocent  boy,  I  almost  imputed  the 
very  witnessing  of  it  as  a  sin  to  myself;  and  soon 
I  began  to  be  ashamed  of  more  than  the  mere 
sitting  by  and  hearing.  I  found  myself  gradually 
learning  slang-insolence,  laughing  at  coarse  jokes, 
taking  part  in  angry  conversations ;  my  moral  tone 
was  gradually  becoming  lower ;  but  yet  the  habit 
of  prayer  remained,  and  every  night  at  my  bed- 
side, when  I  prayed  to  "  be  converted  and  made  a 
child  of  God,"  I  prayed  that  the  same  mercy  might 
be  extended  to  my  fellow-workmen,  "  if  they  be- 
longed to  the  number  of  the  elect."  Those  prayers 
may  have  been  answered  in  a  wider  and  deeper 
sense  than  I  then  thought  of. 

But,  altogether,  I  felt  myself  in  a  most  distracted, 
rudderless  state.  My  mother's  advice  I  felt  daily 
less  and  less  inclined  to  ask.  A  gulf  was  opening 
between  us;  we  were  moving  in  two  different 
worlds,  and  she  saw  it,  and  imputed  it  to  me  as 
a  sin ;  and  was  the  more  cold  to  me  by  day,  and 
prayed  for  me  (as  I  knew  afterwards)  the  more 
passionately  while  I  slept.  But  help  or  teacher  I 
had  none.  I  iknew  not  that  I  had  a  Father  in 
heaven.  How  could  He  be  my  Father  till  I  was 
converted  ?  I  was  a  child  of  the  Devil,  they  told 
me ;  and  now  and  then  I  felt  inclined  to  take  them 
at  their  word,  and  behave  like  one.  No  sympa- 
thizing face  looked  on  me  out  of  the  wide  heaven 


The  Tailor's  Workroom  165 

—  off  the  wide  earth,  none.  I  was  all  boiling  with 
new  hopes,  new  temptations,  new  passions,  new 
sorrows,  and  "  I  looked  to  the  right  hand  and  to 
the  left,  and  no  man  cared  for  my  soul." 

I  had  felt  myself  from  the  first  strangely  drawn 
towards  Crossthwaite,  carefully  as  he  seemed  to 
avoid  me,  except  to  give  me  business  directions 
in  the  workroom.  He  alone  had  shown  me  any 
kindness,  and  he,  too,  alone  was  untainted  with  the 
sin  around  him.  Silent,  moody,  and  preoccupied, 
he  was  yet  the  king  of  the  room.  His  opinion  was 
always  asked,  and  listened  to.  His  eye  always 
cowed  the  ribald  and  the  blasphemer ;  his  songs, 
when  he  rarely  broke  out  into  merriment,  were 
always  rapturously  applauded.  Men  hated,  and 
yet  respected  him.  I  shrank  from  him  at  first, 
when  I  heard  him  called  a  Chartist ;  for  my  dim 
notions  of  that  class  were,  that  they  were  a  very 
wicked  set  of  people,  who  wanted  to  kill  all  the 
soldiers,  and  policemen  and  respectable  people,  and 
rob  all  the  shops  of  their  contents.  But,  Chartist 
or  none,  Crossthwaite  fascinated  me.  I  often  found 
myself  neglecting  my  work  to  study  his  face.  I 
liked  him,  too,  because  he  was  as  I  was  —  small, 
pale,  and  weakly.  He  might  have  been  five-and- 
twenty;  but  his  looks,  like  those  of  too  many  a 
workingman,  were  rather  those  of  a  man  of  forty. 
Wild  gray  eyes  gleamed  out  from  under  huge 
knitted  brows,  and  a  perpendicular  wall  of  brain, 
too  large  for  his  puny  body.  He  was  not  only,  I 
soon  discovered,  a  water-drinker,  but  a  strict  "  vege- 
tarian "  also  ;  to  which,  perhaps,  he  owed  a  great 
deal  of  the  almost  preternatural  clearness,  volu- 
bility, and  sensitiveness  of  his  mind.  But  whether 
from  his  ascetic  habits,  or  the  unhealthiness  of  his 


1 66    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

trade,  the  marks  of  ill-health  were  upon  him  ;  and 
his  sallow  cheek  and  ever-working  lip  proclaimed 
too  surely  — 

The  fiery  soul  which,  working  out  its  way, 
Fretted  the  pigmy  body  to  decay; 
And  o'er  informed  the  tenement  of  clay. 

I  longed  to  open  my  heart  to  him.  Instinctively 
I  felt  that  he  was  a  kindred  spirit.  Often,  turning 
round  suddenly  in  the  workroom,  I  caught  him 
watching  me  with  an  expression  which  seemed  to 
say,  "  Poor  boy,  and  art  thou  too  one  of  us? 
Hast  thou  too  to  fight  with  poverty  and  guideless- 
ness,  and  the  cravings  of  an  unsatisfied  intellect,  as 
I  have  done !  "  But  when  I  tried  to  speak  to  him 
earnestly,  his  manner  was  peremptory  and  repel- 
lent. It  was  well  for  me  that  so  it  was  —  well  for 
me,  I  see  now,  that  it  was  not  from  him  my  mind 
received  the  first  lessons  in  self-development.  For 
guides  did  come  to  me  in  good  time,  though  not 
such,  perhaps,  as  either  my  mother  or  my  reader 
would  have  chosen  for  me. 

My  great  desire  now  was  to  get  knowledge.  By 
getting  that  I  fancied,  as  most  self-educated  men 
are  apt  to  do,  I  should  surely  get  wisdom.  Books, 
I  thought,  would  tell  me  all  I  needed.  But  where 
to  get  the  books  ?  And  which  ?  I  had  exhausted 
our  small  stock  at  home;  I  was  sick  and  tired, 
without  knowing  why,  of  their  narrow  conventional 
view  of  everything.  After  all,  I  had  been  reading 
them  all  along,  not  for  their  doctrines  but  for  their 
facts,  and  knew  not  where  to  find  more,  except  in 
forbidden  paths.  I  dare  not  ask  my  mother  for 
books,  for  I  dare  not  confess  to  her  that  religious 
ones  were  just  what  I  did  not  want;  and  all  his- 


The  Tailor's  Workroom  167 

tory,  poetry,  science,  I  had  been  accustomed  to 
hear  spoken  of  as  "  carnal  learning,  human  philos- 
ophy," more  or  less  diabolic  and  ruinous  to  the 
soul.  So,  as  usually  happens  in  this  life  —  "  By 
the  law  was  the  knowledge  of  sin  "  —  and  unnatural 
restrictions  on  the  development  of  the  human  spirit 
only  associated  with  guilt  of  conscience  what  ought 
to  have  been  an  innocent  and  necessary  blessing. 

My  poor  mother,  not  singular  in  her  mistake, 
had  sent  me  forth,  out  of  an  unconscious  paradise 
into  the  evil  world,  without  allowing  me  even  the 
sad  strength  which  comes  from  eating  of  the  tree 
of  knowledge  of  good  and  evil;  she  expected  in 
me  the  innocence  of  the  dove,  as  if  that  was  possi- 
ble on  such  an  earth  as  this,  without  the  wisdom  of 
the  serpent  to  support  it.  She  forbade  me  strictly 
to  stop  and  look  into  the  windows  of  print  shops, 
and  I  strictly  obeyed  her.  But  she  forbade  me, 
too,  to  read  any  book  which  I  had  not  first  shown 
her;  and  that  restriction,  reasonable  enough  in  the 
abstract,  practically  meant,  in  the  case  of  a  poor 
boy  like  myself,  reading  no  books  at  all.  And 
then  came  my  first  act  of  disobedience,  the  parent 
of  many  more.  Bitterly  have  I  repented  it,  and 
bitterly  been  punished.  Yet,  strange  contradic- 
tion !  I  dare  not  wish  it  undone.  But  such  is  the 
great  law  of  life.  Punished  for  our  sins  we  surely 
are ;  and  yet  how  often  they  become  our  blessings, 
teaching  us  that  which  nothing  else  can  teach  us ! 
Nothing  else  ?  One  says  so.  Rich  parents,  I  sup- 
pose, say  so,  when  they  send  their  sons  to  public 
schools  "  to  learn  life."  We  workingmen  have  too 
often  no  other  teacher  than  our  own  errors.  But 
surely,  surely,  the  rich  ought  to  have  been  able  to 
discover  some  mode  of  education  in  which  knowl- 


1 68     Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

edge  may  be  acquired  without  the  price  of  con- 
science. Yet  they  have  not;  and  we  must  not 
complain  of  them  for  not  giving  such  a  one  to  the 
working  man  when  they  have  not  yet  even  given 
it  to  their  own  children. 

In  a  street  through  which  I  used  to  walk  home- 
ward was  an  old  bookshop,  piled  and  fringed  out- 
side and  in  with  books  of  every  age,  size,  and 
color.  And  here  I  at  last  summoned  courage  to 
stop,  and  timidly  and  stealthily  taking  out  some 
volume  whose  title  attracted  me,  snatch  hastily  a 
few  pages  and  hasten  on,  half  fearful  of  being 
called  on  to  purchase,  half  ashamed  of  a  desire 
which  I  fancied  every  one  else  considered  as  un- 
lawful as  my  mother  did.  Sometimes  I  was  lucky 
enough  to  find  the  same  volume  several  days  run- 
ning, and  to  take  up  the  subject  where  I  had  left  it 
off;  and  thus  I  contrived  to  hurry  through  a  great 
deal  of  "  Childe  Harold,"  "  Lara,"  and  the  "  Cor- 
sair "  —  a  new  world  of  wonders  to  me.  They  fed, 
those  poems,  both  my  health  and  my  diseases; 
while  they  gave  me,  little  of  them  as  I  could  un- 
derstand, a  thousand  new  notions  about  scenery 
and  man,  a  sense  of  poetic  melody  and  luxuriance 
as  yet  utterly  unknown.  They  chimed  in  with  all 
my  discontent,  my  melancholy,  my  thirst  after 
any  life  of  action  and  excitement,  however  frivo- 
lous, insane,  or  even  worse.  I  forgot  the  Corsair's 
sinful  trade  in  his  free  and  daring  life ;  rather,  I 
honestly  eliminated  the  bad  element  —  in  which, 
God  knows,  I  took  no  delight  —  and  kept  the 
good  one.  However  that  might  be,  the  innocent 
—  guilty  pleasure  grew  on  me  day  by  day.  Inno- 
cent, because  human  —  guilty,  because  disobe- 
dient.    But  have  I  not  paid  the  penalty? 


The  Tailor*s  Workroom  169 

One  evening,  however,  I  fell  accidentally  on  a 
new  book —  "  The  Life  and  Poems  of  J.  Bethune." 
I  opened  the  story  of  his  life  —  became  interested, 
absorbed  —  and  there  I  stood,  I  know  not  how 
long,  on  the  greasy  pavement,  heedless  of  the 
passers  who  thrust  me  right  and  left,  reading  by 
the  flaring  gas-light  that  sad  history  of  labor,  sor- 
row, and  death.  —  How  the  Highland  cotter,  in 
spite  of  disease,  penury,  starvation  itself,  and  the 
daily  struggle  to  earn  his  bread  by  digging  and 
ditching,  educated  himself — how  he  toiled  unceas- 
ingly with  his  hands  —  how  he  wrote  his  poems  in 
secret  on  dirty  scraps  of  paper  and  old  leaves  of 
books  —  how  thus  he  wore  himself  out,  manful  and 
godly,  "  bating  not  a  jot  of  heart  or  hope,"  till  the 
weak  flesh  would  bear  no  more;  and  the  noble 
spirit,  unrecognized  by  the  lord  of  the  soil,  returned 
to  God  who  gave  it.  I  seemed  to  see  in  his  history 
a  sad  presage  of  my  own.  If  he,  stronger,  more 
self-restrained,  more  righteous  far  than  ever  I 
could  be,  had  died  thus  unknown,  unassisted,  in 
the  stern  battle  with  social  disadvantages,  what 
must  be  my  lot? 

And  tears  of  sympathy,  rather  than  of  selfish 
fear,  fell  fast  upon  the  book. 

A  harsh  voice  from  the  inner  darkness  of  the 
shop  startled  me. 

'*  Hoot,  laddie,  ye  '11  better  no  spoil  my  books 
wi'  greeting  ower  them." 

I  replaced  the  book  hastily,  and  was  hurrying 
on,  but  the  same  voice  called  me  back  in  a  more 
kindly  tone. 

'*  Stop  a  wee,  my  laddie.  I  'm  no  angered  wi*  ye. 
Come  in,  and  we  '11  just  ha*  a  bit  crack  thegither,*' 

I  went  in,  for  there  was  a  genialityr  in  the  tone 


170    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

to  which  I  was  unaccustomed,  and  something  whis- 
pered to  me  the  hope  of  an  adventure,  as  indeed 
it  proved  to  be,  if  an  event  deserves  that  name 
which  decided  the  course  of  my  whole  destiny. 

"  What  war  ye  greeting  about,  then  ?  What  was 
the  book?" 

"  *  Bethune's  Life  and  Poems,'  sir,"  I  said.  "  And 
certainly  they  did  affect  me  very  much." 

"  Affect  ye?  Ah,  Johnnie  Bethune,  puir  fellow! 
Ye  maunna  take  on  about  sic  like  laddies,  or  ye  '11 
greet  your  e'en  out  o'  your  head.  It's  mony  a 
braw  man  beside  Johnnie  Bethune  has  gane  John- 
nie Bethune's  gate." 

Though  unaccustomed  to  the  Scotch  accent,  I 
could  make  out  enough  of  this  speech  to  be  in  no 
wise  consoled  by  it.  But  the  old  man  turned  the 
conversation  by  asking  me  abruptly  my  name,  and 
trade,  and  family. 

"Hum,  hum,  widow,  eh?  puir  body!  work  at 
Smith's  shop,  eh  ?  Ye  '11  ken  John  Crossthwaite, 
then?  ay?  hum,  hum ;  an'  ye  're  desirous  o'  reading 
books?  vara  weel  —  let's  see  your  cawpabilities." 

And  he  pulled  me  into  the  dim  light  of  the  little 
back  window,  shoved  back  his  spectacles,  and 
peering  at  me  from  underneath  them,  began,  to 
my  great  astonishment,  to  feel  my  head  all 
over. 

"  Hum,  hum,  a  vara  gude  forehead  —  vara  gude 
indeed.  Causative  organs  large,  perceptive  ditto. 
Imagination  superabundant  —  mun  be  heeded. 
Benevolence,  conscientiousness,  ditto,  ditto.  Cau- 
tion —  no  that  large  —  might  be  developed,"  with 
a  quiet  chuckle,  "  under  a  gude  Scot's  education. 
Just  turn  your  head  into  profile,  laddie.  Hum, 
hum.      Back  o'   the    head   a'thegither  defective. 


The  Tailor*s  Workroom  171 

Firmness  sma'  —  love  of  approbation  unco  big. 
Beware  o'  leeing,  as  ye  live ;  ye  '11  need  it.  Philo- 
progenitiveness  gude.  Ye '11  be  fond  o'  bairns, 
I'm  guessing?" 

"Of  what?" 

"  Children,  laddie,  —  children." 

"Very,"  answered  I,  in  utter  dismay  at  what 
seemed  to  me  a  magical  process  for  getting  at  all 
my  secret  failings. 

"  Hum,  hum !  Amative  and  combative  organs 
sma'  —  a  general  want  o'  healthy  animalism,  as  my 
freen'  Mr.  Deville  wad  say.  And  ye  want  to  read 
books?" 

I  confessed  my  desire,  without,  alas !  confessing 
that  my  mother  had  forbidden  it. 

"  Vara  weel ;  then  books  I  '11  lend  ye,  after  I  've 
had  a  crack  wi'  Crossthwaite  aboot  ye,  gin  I  find 
his  opinion  o'  ye  satisfactory.  Come  to  me  the 
day  after  to-morrow.  An'  mind,  here  are  my  rules : 
—  a'  damage  done  to  a  book  to  be  paid  for,  or  na 
mair  books  lent;  ye '11  mind  to  take  no  books 
without  leave ;  specially  ye  '11  mind  no  to  read  in 
bed  o'  nights,  —  industrious  folks  ought  to  be 
sleepin'  betimes,  an'  I  'd  no  be  a  party  to  burning 
puir  weans  in  their  beds ;  and  lastly,  ye  '11  observe 
not  to  read  mair  than  five  books  at  once." 

I  assured  him  that  I  thought  such  a  thing  impos- 
sible; but  he  smiled  in  his  saturnine  way,  and 
said  — 

"  We  '11  see  this  day  fortnight.  Now,  then,  I  've 
observed  ye  for  a  month  past  over  that  aristocratic 
Byron's  poems.  And  I'm  willing  to  teach  the 
young  idea  how  to  shoot  —  but  no  to  shoot  itself; 
so  ye  '11  just  leave  alane  that  vinegary,  soul-destroy- 
ing trash,  and  I  '11  lend  ye,  gin  I  hear  a  gude  re- 


172     Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

port  of  ye,  '  The  Paradise  Lost,'  o'  John  Milton 
—  a  gran'  classic  model ;  and  for  the  doctrine  o'  't 
it  *s  just  aboot  as  gude  as  ye  '11  hear  elsewhere  the 
noo.  So  gang  your  gate,  and  tell  John  Cross- 
thwaite,  privately,  auld  Sandy  Mackaye  wad  like 
to  see  him  the  morn's  night." 

I  went  home  in  wonder  and  delight.  Books! 
books !  books !  I  should  have  my  fill  of  them  at 
last.  And  when  I  said  my  prayers  at  night,  I 
thanked  God  for  this  unexpected  boon ;  and  then 
remembered  that  my  mother  had  forbidden  it. 
That  thought  checked  the  thanks,  but  not  the 
pleasure.  Oh,  parents !  are  there  not  real  sins 
enough  in  the  world  already,  without  your  defiling 
it,  over  and  above,  by  inventing  new  ones? 


CHAPTER  m 

SANDY  MACKAYE 

THAT  day  fortnight  came,  —  and  the  old 
Scotchman's  words  came  true.  Four  books 
of  his  I  had  already,  and  I  came  in  to  borrow  a 
fifth ;  whereon  he  began  with  a  solemn  chuckle  — 

"Eh,  laddie,  laddie,  I  've  been  treating  ye  as  the 
grocers  do  their  new  prentices.  They  first  gie  the 
boys  three  days'  free  warren  among  the  figs  and 
the  sugar-candy,  and  they  get  scunnered  wi'  sweets 
after  that.  Noo,  then,  my  lad,  ye  've  just  been 
reading  four  books  in  three  days  —  and  here 's  a 
fifth.     Ye  '11  no  open  this  again." 

"Oh!"  I  cried,  piteously  enough,  "just  let  me 
finish  what  I  am  reading.  I'm  in  the  middle 
of  such  a  wonderful  account  of  the  Hornitos  of 
Jurullo." 

"  Hornets  or  wasps,  a  swarm  o'  them  ye  're  like 
to  have  at  this  rate ;  and  a  very  bad  substitute  ye  '11 
find  them  for  the  Attic  bee.  Now  tak'  tent.  I  'm 
no  in  the  habit  of  speaking  without  deliberation, 
for  it  saves  a  man  a  great  deal  of  trouble  in  chang- 
ing his  mind.  If  ye  canna  traduce  to  me  a  page  o' 
Virgil  by  this  day  three  months,  ye  read  no  more 
o'  my  books.  Desultory  reading  is  the  bane  o'  lads. 
Ye  maun  begin  with  self-restraint  and  method,  my 
man,  gin  ye  intend  to  gie  yoursei'  a  liberal  educa- 


174    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

tion.  So  I'll  just  mak'  you  a  present  of  an  auld 
Latin  grammar,  and  ye  maun  begin  where  your 
betters  ha'  begun  before  you." 

"  But  who  will  teach  me  Latin  ?  " 

"  Hoot,  man  !  who  '11  teach  a  man  anything  except 
himsel '  ?  It 's  only  gentlefolks  and  puir  aristocrat 
bodies  that  go  to  be  spoilt  wi'  tutors  and  peda- 
gogues, cramming  and  loading  them  wi'  knowledge, 
as  ye  'd  load  a  gun,  to  shoot  it  all  out  again,  just  as 
it  went  down,  in  a  college  examination,  and  forget 
all  aboot  it  after." 

"  Ah ! "  I  sighed, "  if  I  could  have  gone  to  college ! " 

"  What  for,  then  ?  My  father  was  a  Hieland 
farmer,  and  yet  he  was  a  weel  learned  man :  and 
*  Sandy,  my  lad,'  he  used  to  say,  '  a  man  kens 
just  as  much  as  he's  taught  himsel',  and  na  mair. 
So  get  wisdom ;  and  wi'  all  your  getting,  get  un- 
derstanding.' And  so  I  did.  And  mony  's  the 
Greek  exercise  I  've  written  in  the  cowbyres.  And 
mony 's  the  page  o*  Virgil,  too,  I  've  turned  into 
good  Dawric  Scotch  to  ane  that 's  dead  and  gane, 
poor  hizzie,  sitting  under  the  same  plaid,  with  the 
sheep  feeding  round  us,  up  among  the  hills,  look- 
ing out  ower  the  broad  blue  sea,  and  the  wee  haven 
wi'  the  fishing  cobles " 

There  was  a  long  solemn  pause.  I  cannot  tell 
why,  but  I  loved  the  man  from  that  moment ;  and 
I  thought,  too,  that  he  began  to  love  me.  Those 
few  words  seemed  a  proof  of  confidence,  perhaps 
all  the  deeper,  because  accidental  and  unconscious. 

I  took  the  Virgil  which  he  lent  me,  with  Hamil- 
ton's literal  translation  between  the  lines,  and  an 
old  tattered  Latin  grammar;  I  felt  myself  quite  a 
learned  man  —  actually  the  possessor  of  a  Latin 
book !    I  regarded  as  something  almost  miraculous 


Sandy  Mackaye  175 

the  opening  of  this  new  field  for  my  ambition.  Not 
that  I  was  consciously,  much  less  selfishly,  ambi- 
tious. I  had  no  idea  as  yet  to  be  anything  but  a 
tailor  to  the  end ;  to  make  clothes,  —  perhaps  in  a 
less  infernal  atmosphere,  —  but  still  to  make  clothes 
and  live  thereby.  I  did  not  suspect  that  I  possessed 
powers  above  the  mass.  My  intense  longing  after 
knowledge  had  been  to  me  like  a  girl's  first  love  — 
a  thing  to  be  concealed  from  every  eye  —  to  be 
looked  at  askance  even  by  myself,  delicious  as  it 
was,  with  holy  shame  and  trembling.  And  thus  it 
was  not  cowardice  merely,  but  natural  modesty, 
which  put  me  on  a  hundred  plans  of  concealing  my 
studies  from  my  mother,  and  even  from  my  sister. 

I  slept  in  a  little  lean-to  garret  at  the  back  of  the 
house,  some  ten  feet  long  by  six  wide.  I  could 
just  stand  upright  against  the  inner  wall,  while  the 
roof  on  the  other  side  ran  down  to  the  floor. 
There  was  no  fireplace  in  it,  or  any  means  of 
ventilation.  No  wonder  I  coughed  all  night  ac- 
cordingly, and  woke  about  two  every  morning 
with  choking  throat  and  aching  head.  My  mother 
often  said  that  the  room  was  "  too  small  for  a 
Christian  to  sleep  in,  but  where  could  she  get  a 
better?" 

Such  was  my  only  study.  I  could  not  use  it  as 
such,  however,  at  night  without  discovery ;  for  my 
mother  carefully  looked  in  every  evening,  to  see 
that  my  candle  was  out.  But  when  my  kind  cough 
woke  me,  I  rose,  and  creeping  like  a  mouse  about 
the  room — for  my  mother  and  sister  slept  in  the 
next  chamber,  and  every  sound  was  audible 
through  the  narrow  partition  —  I  drew  my  darling 
books  out  from  under  a  board  of  the  floor,  one 
end  of  which  I  had   gradually  loosened  at  odd 


176    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

minutes,  and  with  them  a  rushlight,  earned  by 
running  on  messages,  or  by  taking  bits  of  work 
home,  and  finishing  them  for  my  fellows. 

No  wonder  that  with  this  scanty  rest,  and  this 
complicated  exertion  of  hands,  eyes,  and  brain, 
followed  by  the  long  dreary  day's  work  of  the 
shop,  my  health  began  to  fail ;  my  eyes  grew 
weaker  and  weaker ;  my  cough  became  more 
acute ;  my  appetite  failed  me  daily.  My  mother 
noticed  the  change,  and  questioned  me  about  it, 
afifectionately  enough.  But  I  durst  not,  alas  !  tell 
the  truth.  It  was  not  one  offence,  but  the  arrears 
of  months  of  disobedience  which  I  should  have 
had  to  confess;  and  so  arose  infinite  false  ex- 
cuses, and  petty  prevarications,  which  embittered 
and  clogged  still  more  my  already  overtasked 
spirit.  About  my  own  ailments  —  formidable  as 
I  believed  they  were  —  I  never  had  a  moment's 
anxiety.  The  expectation  of  early  death  was  as 
unnatural  to  me  as  it  is,  I  suspect,  to  almost  all.  I 
die?  Had  I  not  hopes,  plans,  desires,  infinite? 
Could  I  die  while  they  were  unfulfilled?  Even  now, 
I  do  not  believe  I  shall  die  yet.  I  will  not  believe 
it  —  but  let  that  pass. 

Yes,  let  that  pass.  Perhaps  I  have  lived  long 
enough  —  longer  than  many  a  gray-headed  man. 

There  is  a  race  o£  mortals  who  become 
Old  in  their  youth,  and  die  ere  middle  age. 

And  might  not  those  days  of  mine  then  have 
counted  as  months?  —  those  days  when,  before 
starting  forth  to  walk  two  miles  to  the  shop  at  six 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  I  sat  some  three  or  four 
hours  shivering  on  my  bed,  putting  myself  into 
cramped  and  painful  postures,  not  daring  even  to 


Sandy  Mackaye  177 

cough,  lest  my  mother  should  fancy  me  unwell, 
and  come  in  to  see  me,  poor  dear  soul !  —  my  eyes 
aching  over  the  page,  my  feet  wrapped  up  in  the 
bedclothes,  to  keep  them  from  the  miserable  pain 
of  the  cold  ;  longing,  watching,  dawn  after  dawn, 
for  the  kind  summer  mornings,  when  I  should 
need  no  candlelight.  Look  at  the  picture  awhile, 
ye  comfortable  folks,  who  take  down  from  your 
shelves  what  books  you  like  best  at  the  moment, 
and  then  lie  back,  amid  prints  and  statuettes,  to 
grow  wise  in  an  easy-chair,  with  a  blazing  fire  and 
a  camphine  lamp.  The  lower  classes  uneducated  I 
Perhaps  you  would  be  so  too,  if  learning  cost  you 
the  privation  which  it  costs  some  of  them. 

But  this  concealment  could  not  last.  My  only 
wonder  is,  that  I  continued  to  get  whole  months 
of  undiscovered  study.  One  morning,  about  four 
o'clock,  as  might  have  been  expected,  my  mother 
heard  me  stirring,  came  in,  and  found  me  sitting 
crosslegged  on  my  bed,  stitching  away,  indeed, 
with  all  my  might,  but  with  a  Virgil  open  before 
me. 

She  glanced  at  the  book,  clutched  it  with  one 
hand  and  my  arm  with  the  other,  and  sternly 
asked  — 

"Where  did  you  get  this  heathen  stuff?" 

A  lie  rose  to  my  lips  ;  but  I  had  been  so  gradu- 
ally entangled  in  the  loathed  meshes  of  a  system 
of  concealment,  and  consequent  prevarication,  that 
I  felt  as  if  one  direct  falsehood  would  ruin  forever 
my  fast-failing  self-respect,  and  I  told  her  the 
whole  truth.  She  took  the  book  and  left  the  room. 
It  was  Saturday  morning,  and  I  spent  two  miser- 
able days,  for  she  never  spoke  a  word  to  me  till 
the  two  ministers  had  made  their  appearance,  and 


178     Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

drank  their  tea  on  Sunday  evening :  then  at  last 
she  opened  — 

"  And  now,  Mr.  Wigginton,  what  account  have 
you  of  this  Mr.  Mackaye,  who  has  seduced  my 
unhappy  boy  from  the  paths  of  obedience  ?  " 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say,  madam,"  answered  the  dark 
man,  with  a  solemn  snuffle,  "  that  he  proves  to  be 
a  most  objectionable  and  altogether  unregenerate 
character.  He  is,  as  I  am  informed,  neither  more 
nor  less  than  a  Chartist,  and  an  open  blasphemer." 

"  He  is  not !  "  I  interrupted  angrily.  "  He  has 
told  me  more  about  God,  and  given  me  better 
advice,  than  any  human  being,  except  my  mother." 

"  Ah  !  madam,  so  thinks  the  unconverted  heart, 
ignorant  that  the  god  of  the  Deist  is  not  the  God 
of  the  Bible  —  a  consuming  fire  to  all  but  His 
beloved  elect;  the  god  of  the  Deist,  unhappy 
youth,  is  a  mere  self-invented,  all-indulgent  phan- 
tom—  a  will-o'-the-wisp,  deluding  the  unwary,  as 
he  has  deluded  you,  into  the  slough  of  carnal 
reason  and  shameful  profligacy." 

"Do  you  mean  to  call  me  a  profligate?"  I  re- 
torted fiercely,  for  my  blood  was  up,  and  I  felt  I 
was  fighting  for  all  which  I  prized  in  the  world : 
*'  if  you  do,  you  lie.  Ask  my  mother  when  I  ever 
disobeyed  her  before?  I  have  never  touched  a 
drop  of  anything  stronger  than  water;  I  have 
slaved  over-hours  to  pay  for  my  own  candle,  I 
have !  —  I  have  no  sins  to  accuse  myself  of,  and 
neither  you  nor  any  person  know  of  any.  Do  you 
call  me  a  profligate  because  I  wish  to  educate 
myself  and  rise  in  life?" 

"  Ah !  "  groaned  my  poor  mother  to  herself, 
**  still  unconvinced  of  sin !  " 

*•  The  old  Adam,  my  dear  madam,  you  see,  — • 


Sandy  Mackaye  179 

standing,  as  he  always  does,  on  his  own  filthy  rags 
of  works,  while  all  the  imaginations  of  his  heart 
are  only  evil  continually.  Listen  to  me,  poor 
sinner  —  " 

"  I  will  not  listen  to  you,"  I  cried,  the  accumu- 
lated disgust  of  years  bursting  out  once  and  for 
all,  "  for  I  hate  and  despise  you,  eating  my  poor 
mother  here  out  of  house  and  home.  You  are 
one  of  those  who  creep  into  widows'  houses,  and 
for  pretence  make  long  prayers.  You,  sir,  I  will 
hear,"  I  went  on,  turning  to  the  dear  old  man  who 
had  sat  by  shaking  his  white  locks  with  a  sad  and 
puzzled  air,  "  for  I  love  you." 

"  My  dear  sister  Locke,"  he  began,  "  I  really 
think  sometimes  —  that  is,  ahem — with  your  leave, 
brother  —  I  am  almost  disposed  —  but  I  should 
wish  to  defer  to  your  superior  zeal  —  yet,  at  the 
same  time,  perhaps,  the  desire  for  information, 
however  carnal  in  itself,  may  be  an  instrument  in 
the  Lord's  hands  —  you  know  what  I  mean.  I 
always  thought  him  a  gracious  youth,  madam, 
did  n't  you  ?  And  perhaps  —  I  only  observe  it  in 
passing  —  the  Lord's  people  among  the  dissenting 
connections  are  apt  to  undervalue  human  learning 
as  a  means  —  of  course,  I  mean,  only  as  a  means. 
It  is  not  generally  known,  I  believe,  that  our 
reverend  Puritan  patriarchs,  Howe  and  Baxter, 
Owen  and  many  more,  were  <jnot  altogether  unac- 
quainted with  heathen  authors ;  nay,  that  they  may 
have  been  called  absolutely  learned  men.  And 
some  of  our  leading  ministers  are  inclined  —  no 
doubt  they  will  be  led  rightly  in  so  important  a 
matter  —  to  follow  the  example  of  the  Indepen- 
dents in  educating  their  young  ministers,  and  turn- 
ing Satan's  weapons  of  heathen  mythology  against 


i8o    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

himself,  as  St.  Paul  is  said  to  have  done.  My  dear 
boy,  what  books  have  you  now  got  by  you  of  Mr. 
Mackaye's?" 

"  Milton  's  '  Poems  '  and  a  Latin  Virgil." 

"  Ah !  "  groaned  the  dark  man ;  "  will  poetry, 
will  Latin  save  an  immortal  soul?" 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what,  sir ;  you  say  yourself  that  it 
depends  on  God's  absolute  counsel  whether  I  am 
saved  or  not.  So,  if  I  am  elect,  I  shall  be  saved 
whatever  I  do ;  and  if  I  am  not,  I  shall  be  damned 
whatever  I  do ;  and  in  the  meantime  you  had  bet- 
ter mind  your  own  business,  and  let  me  do  the  best 
I  can  for  this  life,  as  the  next  is  all  settled  for  me." 

This  flippant,  but  after  all  not  unreasonable 
speech,  seemed  to  silence  the  man;  and  I  took 
the  opportunity  of  running  upstairs  and  bringing 
down  my  Milton.  The  old  man  was  speaking  as 
I  re-entered. 

"  And  you  know,  my  dear  madam,  Mr.  Milton 
was  a  true  converted  man,  and  a  Puritan." 

"  He  was  Oliver  Cromwell's  secretary,"  I  added. 

"Did  he  teach  you  to  disobey  your  mother?" 
asked  my  mother. 

I  did  not  answer;  and  the  old  man,  after  turn- 
ing over  a  few  leaves,  as  if  he  knew  the  book  well, 
looked  up. 

"  I  think,  madam,  you  might  let  the  youth  keep 
these  books,  if  he  will  promise,  as  I  am  sure  he 
will,  to  see  no  more  of  Mr.  Mackaye." 

I  was  ready  to  burst  out  crying,  but  I  made  up 
my  mind  and  answered  — 

"  I  must  see  him  once  again,  or  he  will  think 
me  so  ungrateful.  He  is  the  best  friend  that  I 
ever  had,  except  you,  mother.  Besides,  I  do  not 
know  if  he  will  lend  me  any,  after  this." 


Sandy  Mackaye  i8i 

My  mother  looked  at  the  old  minister,  and  then 
gave  a  sullen  assent. 

"  Promise  me  only  to  see  him  once  —  but  I  can- 
not trust  you.  You  have  deceived  me  once,  Alton, 
and  you  may  again  !  " 

"  I  shall  not,  I  shall  not,"  I  answered  proudly. 
"  You  do  not  know  me  "  —  and  I  spoke  true. 

"  You  do  not  know  yourself,  my  poor  dear  fool- 
ish child  !  "  she  replied  —  and  that  was  true  too. 

"  And  now,  dear  friends,"  said  the  dark  man, 
"  let  us  join  in  offering  up  a  few  words  of  special 
intercession." 

We  all  knelt  down,  and  I  soon  discovered  that 
by  the  special  intercession  was  meant  a  string  of 
bitter  and  groundless  slanders  against  poor  me, 
twisted  into  the  form  of  a  prayer  for  my  conver- 
sion, "  if  it  were  God's  will."  To  which  I  responded 
with  a  closing  "  Amen,"  for  which  I  was  sorry 
afterwards,  when  I  recollected  that  it  was  said  in 
merely  insolent  mockery.  But  the  little  faith  I 
had  was  breaking  up  fast  —  not  altogether,  surely, 
by  my  own  fault.  ^ 

At  all  events,  from  that  day  I  was  emancipated 

^  The  portraits  of  the  minister  and  the  missionary  are  surely 
ejcceptions  to  their  class,  rather  than  the  average.  The  Baptists 
have  had  their  Andrew  Fuller  and  Robert  Hall,  and  among 
missionaries  Dr.  Carey,  and  noble  spirits  in  plenty.  But  such 
men  as  those  who  excited  Alton  Locke's  disgust  are  to  be  met 
with,  in  every  sect ;  in  the  Church  of  England,  and  in  the  Church 
of  Rome.  And  it  is  a  real  and  fearful  scandal  to  the  young,  to 
see  such  men  listened  to  as  God's  messengers,  in  spite  of  their 
utter  want  of  any  manhood  or  virtue,  simply  because  they  are 
"  orthodox,"  each  according  to  the  shibboleths  of  his  hearers,  and 
possess  that  vulpine  "  discretion  of  dulness,"  whose  miraculous 
might  Dean  Swift  sets  forth  in  his  "  Essay  on  the  Fates  of  Clergy- 
men." Such  men  do  exist,  and  prosper ;  and  as  long  as  they  are 
allowed  to  do  so,  Alton  Lockes  will  meet  them,  and  be  scandalized 
by  them.  —  Ed. 


1 8  2    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

from  modern  Puritanism.  The  ministers  both 
avoided  all  serious  conversation  with  me ;  and  my 
mother  did  the  same;  while,  with  a  strength  of 
mind,  rare  among  women,  she  never  alluded  to 
the  scene  of  that  Sunday  evening.  It  was  a  rule 
with  her  never  to  recur  to  what  was  once  done 
and  settled.  What  was  to  be,  might  be  prayed 
over.  But  it  was  to  be  endured  in  silence;  yet 
wider  and  wider  ever  from  that  time  opened  the 
gulf  between  us. 

I  went  trembling  the  next  afternoon  to  Mackaye 
and  told  my  story.  He  first  scolded  me  severely 
for  disobeying  my  mother.  "  He  that  begins  o' 
that  gate,  laddie,  ends  by  disobeying  God  and  his 
ain  conscience.  Gin  ye 're  to  be  a  scholar,  God 
will  make  you  one  —  and  if  not,  ye  '11  no  mak' 
yoursel'  ane  in  spite  o'  Him  and  His  command- 
ments." And  then  he  filled  his  pipe  and  chuckled 
away  in  silence ;  at  last  he  exploded  in  a  horse- 
laugh. 

"So  ye  gied  the  ministers  a  bit  o'  yer  mind? 
*  The  deil  's  amang  the  tailors '  in  gude  earnest, 
as  the  sang  says.  There  's  Johnnie  Crossthwaite 
kicked  the  Papist  priest  out  o'  his  house  yestreen. 
Puir  ministers,  it 's  ill  times  wi'  them  !  They  gang 
about  keckling  and  screighing  after  the  working 
men,  like  a  hen  that's  hatched  ducklings,  when 
she  sees  them  tak'  the  water.  Little  DunkeldV 
coming  to  London  sune,  I  'm  thinking. 

Hech  !  sic  a  parish,  a  parish,  a  parish ; 

Hech  !  sic  a  parish  as  little  Dunkeld  ! 

They  hae  stickit  the  minister,  hanged  the  precentor, 

Dung  down  the  steeple,  and  drucken  the  bell." 

"  But  may  I  keep  the  books  a  little  while,  Mr. 
Mackaye?  " 


Sandy  Mackaye  183 

"  Keep  them  till  ye  die,  gin  ye  will.  What  is 
the  worth  o'  them  to  me?  What  is  the  worth  o' 
anything  to  me,  puir  auld  deevil,  that  ha'  no  half 
a  dizen  years  to  live  at  the  furthest.  God  bless 
ye,  my  bairn ;  gang  hame,  and  mind  your  mither, 
or  it  *s  little  gude  books  'II  do  ye." 


CHAPTER  IV 

TAILORS  AND   SOLDIERS 

1WAS  now  thrown  again  utterly  on  my  own  re- 
sources. I  read  and  re-read  Milton's  "  Poems  '* 
and  Virgil's  "  ^Eneid  "  for  six  more  months  at  every 
spare  moment;  thus  spending  over  them,  I  sup- 
pose, all  in  all,  far  more  time  than  most  gentlemen 
have  done.  I  found,  too,  in  the  last  volume  of 
Milton,  a  few  of  his  select  prose  works :  the  "  Are- 
opagitica,"  the  "  Defence  of  the  English  People," 
and  one  or  two  more,  in  which  I  gradually  began 
to  take  an  interest;  and,  little  of  them  as  I  could 
comprehend,  I  was  awed  by  their  tremendous 
depth  and  power,  as  well  as  excited  by  the  utterly 
new  trains  of  thought  into  which  they  led  me. 
Terrible  was  the  amount  of  bodily  fatigue  which 
I  had  to  undergo  in  reading  at  every  spare  mo- 
ment, while  walking  to  and  fro  from  my  work, 
while  sitting  up,  often  from  midnight  till  dawn, 
stitching  away  to  pay  for  the  tallow-candle  which 
I  burnt,  till  I  had  to  resort  to  all  sorts  of  uncom- 
fortable contrivances  for  keeping  myself  awake, 
even  at  the  expense  of  bodily  pain  —  Heaven  for- 
bid that  I  should  weary  my  readers  by  describing 
them !  Young  men  of  the  upper  classes,  to  whom 
study  —  pursue  it  as  intensely  as  you  will  —  is 
but  the  business   of  the  day,   and  every  spare 


Tailors  and  Soldiers  185 

moment  relaxation,  little  you  guess  the  frightful 
drudgery  undergone  by  a  man  of  the  people  who 
has  vowed  to  educate  himself,  —  to  live  at  once 
two  lives,  each  as  severe  as  the  whole  of  yours,  — 
to  bring  to  the  self-imposed  toil  of  intellectual 
improvement  a  body  and  brain  already  worn  out 
by  a  day  of  toilsome  manual  labor.  I  did  it. 
God  forbid,  though,  that  I  should  take  credit  to 
myself  for  it.  Hundreds  more  have  do  le  it,  with 
still  fewer  advantages  than  mine.  Hundreds  more, 
an  ever-increasing  army  of  martyrs,  are  doing  it 
at  this  moment:  of  some  of  them,  too,  perhaps 
you  may  hear  hereafter. 

I  had  read  through  Milton,  as  I  said,  again  and 
again ;  I  had  got  out  of  him  all  that  my  youth 
and  my  unregulated  mind  enabled  me  to  get.  I 
had  devoured,  too,  not  without  profit,  a  large  old 
edition  of  "  Fox's  Martyrs,"  which  the  venerable 
minister  lent  me,  and  now  I  was  hungering  again 
for  fresh  food,  and  again  at  a  loss  where  to  find 
it. 

I  was  hungering,  too,  for  more  than  information 
—  for  a  friend.  Since  my  intercourse  with  Sandy 
Mackaye  had  been  stopped,  six  months  had 
passed  without  my  once  opening  my  lips  to  any 
human  being  upon  the  subjects  with  which  my 
mind  was  haunted  day  and  night  I  wanted  to 
know  more  about  poetry,  history,  politics,  philoso- 
phy —  all  things  in  heaven  and  earth.  But,  above 
all,  I  wanted  a  faithful  and  sympathizing  ear  into 
which  to  pour  all  my  doubts,  discontents,  and  as- 
pirations. My  sister  Susan,  who  was  one  year 
younger  than  myself,  was  growing  into  a  slender, 
pretty,  hectic  girl  of  sixteen.  But  she  was  al- 
together a  devout   Puritan.      She  had  just  gone 

Vol.  in— 9 


1 86    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

through  the  process  of  conviction  of  sin  and  con- 
version ;  and  being  looked  upon  at  the  chapel  as 
an  especially  gracious  professor,  was  either  unable 
or  unwilling  to  think  or  speak  on  any  subject, 
except  on  those  to  which  I  felt  a  growing  distaste. 
She  had  shrunk  from  me,  too,  very  much,  since 
my  ferocious  attack  that  Sunday  evening  on  the 
dark  minister,  who  was  her  special  favorite.  I 
remarked  it,  and  it  was  a  fresh  cause  of  unhappi- 
ness  and  perplexity. 

At  last  I  made  up  my  mind,  come  what  would, 
to  force  myself  upon  Crossthwaite.  He  was  the 
only  man  whom  I  knew  who  seemed  able  to  help 
me ;  and  his  very  reserve  had  invested  him  with 
a  mystery,  which  served  to  heighten  my  imagina- 
tion of  his  powers.  I  waylaid  him  one  oay  coming 
out  of  the  workroom  to  go  home,  and  plunged  at 
once  desperately  into  the  matter. 

"  Mr.  Crossthwaite,  I  want  to  speak  to  you.  I 
want  to  ask  you  to  advise  me." 

**  I  have  known  that  a  long  time." 

**  Then  why  did  you  never  say  a  kind  word  to 
me  > " 

*'  Because  I  was  waiting  to  see  whether  you  were 
worth  saying  a  kind  word  to.  It  was  but  the 
other  day,  remember,  you  were  a  bit  of  a  boy. 
Now,  I  think,  I  may  trust  you  with  a  thing  or  two. 
Besides,  I  wanted  to  see  whether  you  trusted  me 
enough  to  ask  me.  Now  you  've  broke  the  ice  at 
last,  in  with  you,  head  and  ears,  and  see  what  you 
can  fish  out" 

"  I  am  very  unhappy " 

"  That 's  no  new  disorder  that  I  know  of." 

"  No ;  but  I  think  the  reason  I  am  unhappy  is 
a  strange  one ;  at  least,  I  never  read  of  but  one 


Tailors  and  Soldiers  187 

person  else  in  the  same  way.     I  want  to  educate 
myself,  and  I  can't." 

"  You  must  have  read  precious  little,  then,  if  you 
think  yourself  in  a  strange  way.  Bless  the  boy's 
heart !  And  what  the  dickens  do  you  want  to  be 
educating  yourself  for,  pray  ?  " 

This  was  said  in  a  tone  of  good-humored  ban- 
ter, which  gave  me  courage.  He  offered  to  walk 
homewards  with  me;  and  as  I  shambled  along 
by  his  side,  I  told  him  all  my  story  and  all  my 
griefs. 

I  never  shall  forget  that  walk.  Every  house, 
tree,  turning,  which  we  passed  that  day  on  our 
way,  is  indissolubly  connected  in  my  mind  with 
some  strange  new  thought  which  arose  in  me  just 
at  each  spot ;  and  recurs,  so  are  the  mind  and  the 
senses  connected,  as  surely  as  I  repass  it. 

I  had  been  telling  him  about  Sandy  Mackaye. 
He  confessed  to  an  acquaintance  with  him ;  but 
in  a  reserved  and  mysterious  way,  which  only 
heightened  my  curiosity. 

We  were  going  through  the  Horse  Guards,  and 
I  could  not  help  lingering  to  look  with  wistful 
admiration  on  the  huge  mustachioed  war-machines 
who  sauntered  about  the  courtyard. 

A  tall  and  handsome  officer,  blazing  in  scarlet 
and  gold,  cantered  in  on  a  superb  horse,  and,  dis- 
mounting, threw  the  reins  to  a  dragoon  as  grand 
and  gaudy  as  himself.  Did  I  envy  him?  Well  — 
I  was  but  seventeen.  And  there  is  something 
noble  to  the  mind,  as  well  as  to  the  eye,  in  the 
great  strong  man,  who  can  fight  — a  completeness, 
a  self-restraint,  a  terrible  sleeping  power  in  him. 
As  Mr.  Carlyle  says,  "  A  soldier,  after  all,  is  one 
of  the   few  remaining   realities  of  the  age.     All 


1 88    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

other  professions  almost  promise  one  thing,  and 
perform  —  alas  !  what  ?  But  this  man  promises 
to  fight,  and  does  it;  and,  if  he  be  told,  will 
veritably  take  out  a  long  sword  and  kill  me." 

So  thought  my  companion,  though  the  mood  in 
which  he  viewed  the  fact  was  somewhat  different 
from  my  own. 

"Come  on,"  he  said,  peevishly  clutching  me  by 
the  arm ;  "what  do  you  want  dawdling?  Are  you 
a  nursery-maid,  that  you  must  stare  at  those  red- 
coated  butchers?"     And  a  deep  curse  followed. 

"  What  harm  have  they  done  you  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  I  owed  them  turn  enough." 

"What?" 

"  They  cut  my  father  down  at  Sheffield,  —  per- 
haps with  the  very  swords  he  helped  to  make,  — 
because  he  would  not  sit  still  and  starve,  and  see 
lis  starving  around  him,  while  those  who  fattened 
on  the  sweat  of  his  brow,  and  on  those  lungs  of 
his,  which  the  sword-grinding  dust  was  eating  out 
day  by  day,  were  wantoning  on  venison  and  cham- 
pagne. That 's  the  harm  they  've  done  me,  my 
chap ! " 

"  Poor  fellows !  —  they  only  did  as  they  were 
ordered,  I  suppose." 

"  And  what  business  have  they  to  let  themselves 
be  ordered  ?  What  right,  I  say  —  what  right  has 
any  free,  reasonable  soul  on  earth,  to  sell  himself 
for  a  shilling  a  day  to  murder  any  man,  right  or 
wrong  —  even  his  own  brother  or  his  own  father  — 
just  because  such  a  whiskered,  profligate  jacka- 
napes as  that  officer,  without  learning,  without  any 
god  except  his  own  looking-glass  and  his  opera- 
dancer  —  a  fellow  who,  just  because  he  is  born  a 
gentleman,  is  set  to  command   gray-headed  men 


Tailors  and  Soldiers  189 

before  he  can  command  his  own  meanest  passions. 
Good  heavens !  that  the  lives  of  free  men  should 
be  entrusted  to  such  a  stuffed  cockatoo ;  and  that 
free  men  should  be  such  traitors  to  their  country, 
traitors  to  their  own  flesh  and  blood,  as  to  sell 
themselves,  for  a  shilling  a  day  and  the  smirks  of 
the  nursery-maids,  to  do  that  fellow's  bidding !  " 

**  What  are  you  a-grumbling  here  about,  my 
man?  —  gotten  the  cholera?"  asked  one  of  the 
dragoons,  a  huge,  stupid-looking  lad., 

"  About  you,  you  young  long-legged  cut- 
throat," answered  Crossthwaite,  "  and  all  your  crew 
of  traitors." 

"  Help,  help,  coomrades  o'  mine !  "  quoth  the 
dragoon,  bursting  with  laughter ;  "  I  'm  gaun  be 
moorthered  wi'  a  little  booy  that 's  gane  mad,  and 
toorned  Chartist." 

I  dragged  Crossthwaite  off;  for  what  was  jest 
to  the  soldiers,  I  saw,  by  his  face,  was  fierce 
enough  earnest  to  him.  We  walked  on  a  little, 
in  silence. 

"  Now,"  I  said,  "  that  was  a  good-natured  fellow 
enough,  though  he  was  a  soldier.  You  and  he 
might  have  cracked  many  a  joke  together,  if  you 
did  but  understand  each  other ;  —  and  he  was  a 
countryman  of  yours,  too." 

"  I  may  crack  something  else  besides  jokes  with 
him  some  day,"  answered  he,  moodily. 

"  'Pon  my  word,  you  must  take  care  how  you 
do  it.     He  is  as  big  as  four  of  us." 

"  That  vile  aristocrat,  the  old  Italian  poet  — 
what 's  his  name  ?  —  Ariosto  —  ay !  —  he  knew 
which  quarter  the  wind  was  making  for,  when  he 
said  that  firearms  would  be  the  end  of  all  your 
old  knights  and  gentlemen  in  armor,  that  hewed 


190    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

down  unarmed  innocents  as  if  they  had  been 
sheep.  Gunpowder  is  your  true  leveller  —  dash 
physical  strength  !  A  boy 's  a  man  with  a  musket 
in  his  hand,  my  chap  !  " 

"  God  forbid,"  I  said,  "  that  I  should  ever  be 
made  a  man  of  in  that  way,  or  you  either.  I  do 
not  think  we  are  quite  big  enough  to  make  fight- 
ers ;  and  if  we  were,  what  have  we  got  to  fight 
about?" 

"Big  ervough  to  make  fighters?"  said  he,  half 
to  himself;  "or  strong  enough,  perhaps?  —  or 
clever  enough  ?  —  and  yet  Alexander  was  a  little 
man,  and  the  Petit  Caporal,  and  Nelson,  and  Csesar, 
too ;  and  so  was  Saul  of  Tarsus,  and  weakly  he  was 
into  the  bargain.  JEsop  was  a  dwarf,  and  so  was 
Attila;  Shakespeare  was  lame;  Alfred,  a  rickety 
weakling ;  Byron,  clubfooted ;  —  so  much  for  body 
versus  spirit  —  brute  force  versus  genius  — genius." 

I  looked  at  him ;  his  eyes  glared  like  two  balls 
of  fire.     Suddenly  he  turned  to  me. 

"  Locke,  my  boy,  I  've  made  an  ass  of  myself, 
and  got  into  a  rage,  and  broken  a  good  old  resolu- 
tion of  mine,  and  a  promise  that  I  made  to  my  dear 
little  woman  —  bless  her !  and  said  things  to  you 
that  you  ought  to  know  nothing  of  for  this  long 
time;  but  those  red-coats  always  put  me  beside 
myself.  God  forgive  me !  "  And  he  held  out  his 
hand  to  me  cordially. 

"  I  can  quite  understand  your  feeling  deeply  on 
one  point,"  I  said,  as  I  took  it,  "  after  the  sad  story 
you  told  me ;  but  why  so  bitter  on  all  ?  What  is 
there  so  very  wrong  about  things,  that  we  must 
begin  fighting  about  it? " 

"Bless  your  heart,  poor  innocent!  What  is 
wrong?  —  what    is    not    wrong?    Wasn't    there 


Tailors  and  Soldiers  191 

enough  in  that  talk  with  Mackaye,  that  you  told 
me  of  just  now,  to  show  anybody  that,  who  can 
tell  a  hawk  from  a  hand-saw?" 

"Was  it  wrong  in  him  to  give  himself  such 
trouble  about  the  education  of  a  poor  young 
fellow,  who  has  no  tie  on  him,  who  can  never  repay 
him?" 

"  No ;  that 's  just  like  him.  He  feels  for  the 
people,  for  he  has  been  one  of  us.  He  worked  in 
a  printing-office  himself  many  a  year,  and  he 
knows  the  heart  of  the  workingman.  But  he 
did  n't  tell  you  the  whole  truth  about  education. 
He  dare  n't  tell  you.  No  one  who  has  money 
dare  speak  out  his  heart;  not  that  he  has  much 
certainly ;  but  the  cunning  old  Scot  that  he  is,  he 
lives  by  the  present  system  of  things,  and  he  won't 
speak  ill  of  the  bridge  which  carries  him  over  — 
till  the  time  comes." 

I  could  not  understand  whither  all  this  tended, 
and  walked  on  silent  and  somewhat  angry,  at  hear- 
ing the  least  slight  cast  on  Mackaye. 

"  Don't  you  see,  stupid  ?  "  he  broke  out  at  last. 
"  What  did  he  say  to  you  about  gentlemen  being 
crammed  by  tutors  and  professors  ?  Have  not  you 
as  good  a  right  to  them  as  any  gentleman  ?  " 

"  But  he  told  me  they  were  no  use  —  that  every 
man  must  educate  himself." 

"  Oh !  all  very  fine  to  tell  you  the  grapes  are 
sour,  when  you  can't  reach  them.  Bah,  lad ! 
Can't  you  see  what  comes  of  education  ?  —  that  any 
dolt,  provided  he  be  a  gentleman,  can  be  doctored 
up  at  school  and  college,  enough  to  make  him 
play  his  part  decently  —  his  mighty  part  of  ruling 
us,  and  riding  over  our  heads,  and  picking  our 
pockets,    as   parson,   doctor,   lawyer,   member   of 


192    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

parliament  —  while  we  —  you  now,  for  instance  — 
cleverer  than  ninety-nine  gentlemen  out  of  a  hun- 
dred, if  you  had  one-tenth  the  trouble  taken  with 
you  that  is  taken  with  every  pig-headed  son  of  an 
aristocrat " 

"  Am  I  clever?"  asked  I,  in  honest  surprise. 

"What!  haven't  you  found  that  out  yet? 
Don't  try  to  put  that  on  me.  Don't  a  girl 
know  when  she 's  pretty,  without  asking  her 
neighbors  ?  " 

"  Really,  I  never  thought  about  it." 

"  More  simpleton  you.  Old  Mackaye  has,  at  all 
events ;  though,  canny  Scotchman  that  he  is,  he  '11 
never  say  a  word  to  you  about  it,  yet  he  makes  no 
secret  of  it  to  other  people.  I  heard  him  the 
other  day  telling  some  of  our  friends  that  you  were 
a  thorough  young  genius." 

I  blushed  scarlet,  between  pleasure  and  a  new 
feeling;  was  it  ambition? 

"  Why,  have  n't  you  a  right  to  aspire  to  a  college 
education  as  any  do-nothing  canon  there  at  the 
abbey,  lad?" 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  have  a  right  to  anything." 

"  What,  not  become  what  Nature  intended  you  to 
become  ?  What  has  she  given  you  brains  for,  but 
to  be  educated  and  used  ?  Oh !  I  heard  a  fine 
lecture  upon  that  at  our  club  the  other  night 
There  was  a  man  there  —  a  gentleman,  too,  but  a 
thoroughgoing  people's  man,  I  can  tell  you,  Mr. 
O'Flynn.  What  an  orator  that  man  is,  to  be  sure ! 
The  Irish  iEschines,  I  hear  they  call  him  in  Con- 
ciliation Hall.  Is  n't  he  the  man  to  pitch  into  the 
mammonites  ?  '  Gentlemen  and  ladies,'  says  he, 
'  how  long  will  a  diabolic  society  *  —  no,  an  effete 
society  it  was  —  '  how  long  will  an  effete,  emascu- 


Tailors  and  Soldiers  193 

late,  and  effeminate  society,  in  the  diabolic  selfish- 
ness of  its  eclecticism,  refuse  to  acknowledge  what 
my  immortal  countryman,  Burke,  calls  the  "  Dei 
voluntatem  in  rebus  revelatam  "  —  the  revelation  of 
Nature's  will  in  the  phenomena  of  matter?  The 
cerebration  of  each  is  the  prophetic  sacrament  of 
the  yet  undeveloped  possibilities  of  his  mentation. 
The  form  of  the  brain  alone,  and  not  the  posses- 
sion of  the  vile  gauds  of  wealth  and  rank,  constitute 
man's  only  right  to  education  —  to  the  glories  of 
art  and  science.  Those  beaming  eyes  and  roseate 
lips  beneath  me  proclaim  a  bevy  of  undeveloped 
Aspasias,  of  embryo  Cleopatras,  destined  by 
Nature,  and  only  restrained  by  man's  injustice 
from  ruling  the  world  by  their  beauty's  eloquence. 
Those  massive  and  beetling  brows,  gleaming  with 
the  lambent  flames  of  patriotic  ardor  —  what  is 
needed  to  unfold  them  into  a  race  of  Shakespeares 
and  of  Gracchi,  ready  to  proclaim  with  sword  and 
lyre  the  divine  harmonies  of  liberty,  equality,  and 
fraternity,  before  a  quailing  universe  ? '  " 

"  It  sounds  very  grand,"  replied  I,  meekly ; 
"  and  I  should  like  very  much  certainly  to  have  a 
good  education.  But  I  can't  see  whose  injustice 
keeps  me  out  of  one  if  I  can't  afford  to  pay  for  it." 

"Whose?  Why,  the  parsons',  to  be  sure. 
They  've  got  the  monopoly  of  education  in  Eng- 
land, and  they  get  their  bread  by  it  at  their  public 
schools  and  universities ;  and  of  course  it 's  their 
interest  to  keep  up  the  price  of  their  commodity, 
and  let  no  man  have  a  taste  of  it  who  can't  pay 
down  handsomely.  And  so  those  aristocrats  of 
college  dons  go  on  rolling  in  riches,  and  fellow- 
ships, and  scholarships,  that  were  bequeathed  by 
the  people's  friends  in  old  times,  just  to  educate 


194    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

poor  scholars  like  you  and  me,  and  give  us  our 
rights  as  free  men." 

"  But  I  thought  the  clergy  were  doing  so  much 
to  educate  the  poor.  At  least,  I  hear  all  the  dis- 
senting ministers  grumbling  at  their  continual 
interference." 

"  Ay,  educating  them  to  make  them  slaves  and 
bigots.  They  don't  teach  them  what  they  teach 
their  own  sons.  Look  at  the  miserable  smattering 
of  general  information  — just  enough  to  serve  as 
sauce  for  their  great  first  and  last  lesson  of  *  Obey 
the  powers  that  be '  —  whatever  they  be ;  leave  us 
alone  in  our  comforts,  and  starve  patiently;  do, 
like  good  boys,  for  it 's  God's  will.  And  then,  if  a 
boy  does  show  talent  in  school,  do  they  help  him 
up  in  life?  Not  they;  when  he  has  just  learnt 
enough  to  whet  his  appetite  for  more,  they  turn 
him  adrift  again,  to  sink  and  drudge  —  to  do  his 
duty,  as  they  call  it,  in  that  state  of  life  to  which 
society  and  the  devil  have  called  him." 

"But  there  are  innumerable  stories  of  great 
Englishmen  who  have  risen  from  the  lowest 
ranks." 

"  Ay ;  but  where  are  the  stories  of  those  who 
have  not  risen  —  of  all  the  noble  geniuses  who 
have  ended  in  desperation,  drunkenness,  starvation, 
suicide,  because  no  one  would  take  the  trouble  of 
lifting  them  up,  and  enabling  them  to  walk  in  the 
path  which  Nature  had  marked  out  for  them? 
Dead  men  tell  no  tales;  and  this  old  whited 
sepulchre,  society,  ain't  going  to  turn  informer 
against  itself." 

"  I  trust  and  hope,"  I  said  sadly,  "  that  if  God 
intends  me  to  rise,  He  will  open  the  way  for  me ; 
perhaps  the  very  struggles  and  sorrows  of  a  poor 


Tailors  and  Soldiers  195 

genius  may  teach  him  more  than  ever  wealth  and 
prosperity  could." 

"  True,  Alton,  my  boy !  and  that 's  my  only 
comfort.  It  does  make  men  of  us,  this  bitter 
battle  of  life.  We  workingmen,  when  we  do 
come  out  of  the  furnace,  come  out,  not  tinsel  and 
papier  mach6,  like  those  fops  of  red-tape  states- 
men, but  steel  and  granite,  Alton,  my  boy  —  that 
has  been  seven  times  tried  in  the  fire:  and  woe 
to  the  papier  mach6  gentleman  that  runs  against 
us  !  But,"  he  went  on  sadly,  **  for  one  who  comes 
safe  through  the  furnace,  there  are  a  hundred  who 
crack  in  the  burning.  You  are  a  young  bear,  my 
boy,  with  all  your  sorrows  before  you ;  and  you  11 
find  that  a  workingman's  training  is  like  the  Red 
Indian  children's.  The  few  who  are  strong  enough 
to  stand  it  grow  up  warriors ;  but  all  those  who 
are  not  fire-and-water-proof  by  nature — just  die, 
Alton,  my  lad,  and  the  tribe  thinks  itself  well 
rid  of  them." 

So  that  conversation  ended.  But  it  had  im- 
planted in  my  bosom  a  new  seed  of  mingled  good 
and  evil,  which  was  destined  to  bear  fruit,  precious 
perhaps  as  well  as  bitter.  God  knows,  it  has  hung 
on  the  tree  long  enough.  Sour  and  harsh  from 
the  first,  it  has  been  many  a  year  in  ripening. 
But  the  sweetness  of  the  apple,  the  potency  of  the 
grape,  as  the  chemists  tell  us,  are  born  out  of  acid- 
ity —  a  developed  sourness.  Will  it  be  so  with 
my  thoughts  ?  Dare  I  assert,  as  I  sit  writing  here, 
with  the  wild  waters  slipping  past  the  cabin  win- 
dows, backwards  and  backwards  ever,  every  plunge 
of  the  vessel  one  forward  leap  from  the  old  world 
—  worn-out  world  I  had  almost  called  it,  of  sham 
civilization  and  real  penury  —  dare  I  hope  ever  to 


196     Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

return  and  triumph?  Shall  I,  after  all,  lay  my 
bones  among  my  own  people,  and  hear  the  voices 
of  freemen  whisper  in  my  dying  ears? 

Silence,  dreaming  heart !  Sufficient  for  the  day 
is  the  evil  thereof —  and  the  good  thereof  also. 
Would  that  I  had  known  that  before  !  Above  all, 
that  I  had  known  it  on  that  night,  when  first  the 
burning  thought  arose  in  my  heart,  that  I  was 
unjustly  used ;  that  society  had  not  given  me  my 
rights.  It  came  to  me  as  a  revelation,  celestial- 
infernal,  full  of  glorious  hopes  of  the  possible 
future  in  store  for  me  through  the  perfect  develop- 
ment of  all  my  faculties ;  and  full,  too,  of  fierce 
present  rage,  wounded  vanity,  bitter  grudgings 
against  those  more  favored  than  myself,  which 
grew  in  time  almost  to  cursing  against  the  God 
who  had  made  me  a  poor  untutored  workingman, 
and  seemed  to  have  given  me  genius  only  to  keep 
me  in  a  Tantalus  hell  of  unsatisfied  thirst. 

Ay,  respectable  gentlemen  and  ladies,  I  will 
confess  all  to  you  —  you  shall  have,  if  you  enjoy 
it,  a  fresh  opportunity  for  indulging  that  supreme 
pleasure  which  the  press  daily  affords  you  of 
insulting  the  classes  whose  powers  most  of  you 
know  as  little  as  you  do  their  sufferings.  Yes; 
the  Chartist  poet  is  vain,  conceited,  ambitious, 
uneducated,  shallow,  inexperienced,  envious,  fero- 
cious, scurrilous,  seditious,  traitorous.  —  Is  your 
charitable  vocabulary  exhausted  ?  Then  ask  your- 
selves, how  often  have  you  yourself  honestly  re- 
sisted and  conquered  the  temptation  to  any  one  of 
these  sins,  when  it  has  come  across  you  just  once 
in  a  way,  and  not  as  they  came  to  me,  as  they 
come  to  thousands  of  the  workingmen,  daily  and 
hourly,  "  till  their  torments  do,  by  length  of  time, 


Tailors  and  Soldiers  197 

become  their  elements  '\  ?  What,  are  we  covetous 
too  ?  Yes !  And  if  those  who  have,  like  you, 
still  covet  more,  what  wonder  if  those  who  have 
nothing  covet  something?  Profligate  too?  Well, 
though  that  imputation  as  a  generality  is  utterly 
calumnious,  though  your  amount  of  respectable 
animal  enjoyment  per  annum  is  a  hundred  times 
as  great  as  that  of  the  most  self-indulgent  artisan, 
yet,  if  you  had  ever  felt  what  it  is  to  want,  not 
only  every  luxury  of  the  senses,  but  even  bread  to 
eat,  you  would  think  more  mercifully  of  the  man 
who  makes  up  by  rare  excesses,  and  those  only  of 
the  limited  kinds  possible  to  him,  for  long  intervals 
of  dull  privation,  and  says  in  his  madness,  "  Let  us 
eat  and  drink,  for  to-morrow  we  die !  "  We  have 
our  sins,  and  you  have  yours.  Ours  may  be  the 
more  gross  and  barbaric,  but  yours  are  none  the 
less  damnable ;  perhaps  all  the  more  so,  for  being 
the  sleek,  subtle,  respectable,  religious  sins  they 
are.  You  are  frantic  enough,  if  our  part  of  the 
press  calls  you  hard  names,  but  you  cannot  see 
that  your  part  of  the  press  repays  it  back  to  us 
with  interest.  We  see  those  insults,  and  feel  them 
bitterly  enough ;  and  do  not  forget  them,  alas ! 
soon  enough,  while  they  pass  unheeded  by  your 
delicate  eyes,  as  trivial  truisms.  Horrible,  unprin- 
cipled, villainous,  seditious,  frantic,  blasphemous 
are  epithets,  of  course,  when  applied  to  —  to  how 
large  a  portion  of  the  English  people,  you  will 
some  day  discover  to  your  astonishment.  When 
will  that  come,  and  how?  In  thunder,  and  storm, 
and  garments  rolled  in  blood?  Or  like  the  dew 
on  the  mown  grass,  and  the  clear  shining  of  the 
sunlight  after  April  rain? 

Yes,  it  was  true.     Society  had  not  given  me  my 


198    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

rights.  And  woe  unto  the  man  on  whom  that 
idea,  true  or  false,  rises  lurid,  filling  all  his  thoughts 
with  stifling  glare,  as  of  the  pit  itself.  Be  it  true, 
be  it  false,  it  is  equally  a  woe  to  believe  it ;  to  have 
to  live  on  a  negation;  to  have  to  worship  for 
our  only  idea,  as  hundreds  of  thousands  of  us 
have  this  day,  the  hatred  of  the  things  which  are. 
Ay,  though  one  of  us  here  and  there  may  die  in 
faith,  in  sight  of  the  promised  land,  yet  is  it  not 
hard,  when  looking  from  the  top  of  Pisgah  into 
"  the  good  time  coming,"  to  watch  the  years 
slipping  away  one  by  one,  and  death  crawling 
nearer  and  nearer,  and  the  people  wearying  them- 
selves in  the  fire  for  very  vanity,  and  Jordan  not 
yet  passed,  the  promised  land  not  yet  entered? 
While  our  little  children  die  around  us,  like  lambs 
beneath  the  knife,  of  cholera  and  typhus  and  con- 
sumption, and  all  the  diseases  which  the  good 
time  can  and  will  prevent;  which,  as  science  has 
proved,  and  you  the  rich  confess,  might  be  pre- 
vented at  once,  if  you  dared  to  bring  in  one  bold 
and  comprehensive  measure,  and  not  sacrifice 
yearly  the  lives  of  thousands  to  the  idol  of  vested 
interest,  and  a  majority  in  the  House.  Is  it  not 
hard  to  men  who  smart  beneath  such  things  to 
help  crying  aloud  —  "Thou  cursed  Moloch-Mam- 
mon,  take  my  life  if  thou  wilt ;  let  me  die  in  the 
wilderness,  for  I  have  deserved  it ;  but  these  little 
ones  in  mines  and  factories,  in  typhus-cellars,  and 
Tooting  pandemoniums,  what  have  they  done?  If 
not  in  their  fathers'  cause,  yet  still  in  theirs,  were 
it  so  great  a  sin  to  die  upon  a  barricade  ?  " 

Or  after  all,  my  working  brothers,  is  it  true  of 
our  promised  land,  even  as  of  that  Jewish  one  of 
old,  that  the  priests'  feet  must  first  cross  the  mystic 


Tailors  and  Soldiers  199 

stream  into  the  good  land  and  large  which  God 
has  prepared  for  us? 

Is  it  so  indeed  ?  Then  in  the  name  of  the  Lord 
of  Hosts,  ye  priests  of  His,  why  will  ye  not  awake, 
and  arise,  and  go  over  Jordan,  that  the  people  of 
the  Lord  may  follow  you  ? 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  SCEPTIC'S  MOTHER 

MY  readers  will  perceive,  from  what  I  have 
detailed,  that  I  was  not  likely  to  get  any 
positive  ground  of  comfort  from  Crossthwaite ; 
and  from  within  myself  there  was  daily  less  and 
less  hope  of  any.  Daily  the  struggle  became  more 
intolerable  between  my  duty  to  my  mother  and 
my  duty  to  myself —  that  inward  thirst  for  mental 
self-improvement,  which,  without  any  clear  con- 
sciousness of  its  sanctity  or  inspiration,  I  felt,  and 
could  not  help  feeling,  that  I  must  follow.  No 
doubt  it  was  very  self-willed  and  ambitious  of  me 
to  do  that  which  rich  men's  sons  are  flogged  for 
not  doing,  and  rewarded  with  all  manner  of  prizes, 
scholarships,  fellowships  for  doing.  But  the  nine- 
teenth year  is  a  time  of  life  at  which  self-will  is  apt 
to  exhibit  itself  in  other  people  besides  tailors; 
and  those  religious  persons  who  think  it  no  sin  to 
drive  their  sons  on  through  classics  and  mathe- 
matics, in  hopes  of  gaining  them  a  station  in  life, 
ought  not  to  be  very  hard  upon  me  for  driving  my- 
self on  through  the  same  path  without  any  ^uch 
selfish  hope  of  gain  —  though  perhaps  the  very  fact 
of  my  having  no  wish  or  expectation  of  such  advan- 
tage will  constitute  in  their  eyes  my  sin  and  folly, 
and  prove  that  I  was  following  the  dictates  merely  of 


The  Sceptic's  Mother  201 

a  carnal  lust,  and  not  of  a  proper  worldly  prudence. 
I  really  do  not  wish  to  be  flippant  or  sneering.  I 
have  seen  the  evil  of  it  as  much  as  any  man,  in 
myself  and  in  my  own  class.  But  there  are  excuses 
for  such  a  fault  in  the  workingman.  It  does  sour 
and  madden  him  to  be  called  presumptuous  and 
ambitious  for  the  very  same  aspirations  which  are 
lauded  up  to  the  skies  in  the  sons  of  the  rich  — 
unless,  indeed,  he  will  do  one  Httle  thing,  and  so 
make  his  peace  with  society.  If  he  will  desert  his 
own  class ;  if  he  will  try  to  become  a  sham  gentle- 
man, a  parasite,  and,  if  he  can,  a  mammonite,  the 
world  will  compliment  him  on  his  noble  desire  to 
"  rise  in  life."  He  will  have  won  his  spurs,  and  be 
admitted  into  that  exclusive  pale  of  knighthood, 
beyond  which  it  is  a  sin  to  carry  arms  even  in  self- 
defence.  But  if  the  working  genius  dares  to  be 
true  to  his  own  class  —  to  stay  among  them  —  to 
regenerate  them  —  to  defend  them  —  to  devote  his 
talents  to  those  among  whom  God  placed  him  and 
brought  him  up  —  then  he  is  a  demagogue,  the 
incendiary,  the  fanatic,  the  dreamer.  So  you  would 
have  the  monopoly  of  talent,  too,  exclusive  world- 
lings? And  yet  you  pretend  to  believe  in  the 
miracle  of  Pentecost,  and  the  religion  that  was 
taught  by  the  carpenter's  Son,  and  preached  across 
the  world  by  fishermen  ! 

I  was  several  times  minded  to  argue  the  question 
out  with  my  mother,  and  assert  for  myself  the  same 
independence  of  soul  which  I  was  now  earning  for 
my  body  by  my  wages.  Once  I  had  resolved  to 
speak  to  her  that  very  evening;  but,  strangely 
enough,  happening  to  open  the  Bible,  which,  alas ! 
I  did  seldom  at  that  time,  my  eye  fell  upon  the 
chapter  where  Jesus,  after  having  justified  to  His 


202    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

parents  His  absence  in  the  Temple,  while  hearing 
the  doctors  and  asking  them  questions,  yet  went 
down  with  them  to  Nazareth  after  all,  and  was 
subject  unto  them.  The  story  struck  me  vividly 
as  a  symbol  of  my  own  duties.  But  on  reading 
further,  I  found  more  than  one  passage  which 
seemed  to  me  to  convey  a  directly  opposite  lesson, 
where  His  mother  and  His  brethren,  fancying  Him 
mad,  attempted  to  interfere  with  His  labors,  and 
asserting  their  family  rights  as  reasons  for  retaining 
Him,  met  with  a  peremptory  rebuff.  I  puzzled 
my  head  for  some  time  to  find  out  which  of  the 
two  cases  was  the  more  applicable  to  my  state  of 
self-development.  The  notion  of  asking  for  teach- 
ing from  on  high  on  such  a  point  had  never  crossed 
me.  Indeed,  if  it  had,  I  did  not  believe  sufficiently 
either  in  the  story  or  in  the  doctrines  connected 
with  it,  to  have  tried  such  a  resource.  And  so,  as 
may  be  supposed,  my  growing  seliK;onceit  decided 
for  me  that  the  latter  course  was  the  fitting  one. 

And  yet  I  had  not  energy  to  carry  it  out.  I  was 
getting  so  worn  out  in  body  and  mind  from  con- 
tinual study  and  labor,  stinted  food  and  want  of 
sleep,  that  I  could  not  face  the  thought  of  an  ex- 
plosion, such  as  I  knew  must  ensue,  and  I  lingered 
on  in  the  same  unhappy  state,  becoming  more  and 
more  morose  in  manner  to  my  mother,  while  I  was 
as  assiduous  as  ever  in  all  filial  duties.  But  I  had 
no  pleasure  in  home.  She  seldom  spoke  to  me. 
Indeed,  there  was  no  common  topic  about  which 
we  could  speak.  Besides,  ever  since  that  fatal 
Sunday  evening,  I  saw  that  she  suspected  me  and 
watched  me.  I  had  good  reason  to  believe  that 
she  set  spies  upon  my  conduct.  Poor  dear  mother  I 
God  forbid  that  I  should  accuse  thee  for  a  single 


The  Sceptic's  Mother  203 

care  of  thine,  for  a  single  suspicion  even,  prompted 
as  they  all  were  by  a  mother's  anxious  love.  I 
would  never  have  committed  these  things  to  paper, 
hadst  thou  not  been  far  beyond  the  reach  or  hear- 
ing of  them ;  and  only  now,  in  hopes  that  they 
may  serve  as  a  warning,  in  some  degree  to  mothers, 
but  ten  times  more  to  children.  For  I  sinned 
against  thee,  deeply  and  shamefully,  in  thought 
and  deed,  while  thou  didst  never  sin  against  me ; 
though  all  thy  caution  did  but  hasten  the  fatal 
explosion  which  came,  and  perhaps  must  have 
come,  under  some  form  or  other,  in  any  case. 

I  had  been  detained  one  night  in  the  shop  till 
late ;  and  on  my  return  my  mother  demanded,  in  a 
severe  tone,  the  reason  of  my  stay ;  and  on  my 
telling  her,  answered  as  severely  that  she  did  not 
believe  me;  that  she  had  too  much  reason  to 
suspect  that  I  had  been  with  bad  companions. 

"  Who  dared  to  put  such  a  thought  into  your 
head?" 

She  "  would  not  give  up  her  authorities,  but  she 
had  too  much  reason  to  believe  them." 

Again  I  demanded  the  name  of  my  slanderer, 
and  was  refused  it.  And  then  I  burst  out,  for  the 
first  time  in  my  life,  into  a  real  fit  of  rage  with  her. 
I  cannot  tell  how  I  dared  to  say  what  I  did,  but  I 
was  weak,  nervous,  irritable  —  my  brain  excited 
beyond  all  natural  tension.  Above  all,  I  felt  that 
she  was  unjust  to  me ;  and  my  good  conscience,  as 
well  as  my  pride,  rebelled. 

"You  have  never  trusted  me,"  I  cried,  "you 
have  watched  me " 

"  Did  you  not  deceive  me  once  already?  " 

"  And  if  I  did,"  I  answered,  more  and  more 
excited,  "  have  I  not  slaved  for  you,  stinted  myself 


204    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

of  clothes  to  pay  your  rent?  Have  I  not  run  to 
and  fro  for  you  like  a  slave,  while  I  knew  all  the 
time  you  did  not  respect  me  or  trust  me?  If  you 
had  only  treated  me  as  a  child  and  an  idiot,  I  could 
have  borne  it.  But  you  have  been  thinking  of  me 
all  the  while  as  an  incarnate  fiend  —  dead  in  tres- 
passes and  sins — a  child  of  wrath  and  .the  devil. 
What  right  have  you  to  be  astonished  if  I  should 
do  my  father's  works?" 

"You  may  be  ignorant  of  vital  religion,"  she 
answered ;  "  and  you  may  insult  me.  But  if  you 
make  a  mock  of  God's  Word,  you  leave  my  house. 
If  you  can  laugh  at  religion,  you  can  deceive  me." 

The  pent-up  scepticism  of  years  burst  forth. 

"  Mother,"  I  said,  "  don't  talk  to  me  about  reli- 
gion, and  election,  and  conversion,  and  all  that  — 
I  do  't  believe  one  word  of  it.  Nobody  does,  ex- 
cept good  kind  people  —  (like  you,  alas !  I  was 
going  to  say,  but  the  devil  stopped  the  words  at 
my  lips)  —  who  must  needs  have  some  reason  to 
account  for  their  goodness.  That  Bowyer  —  he 's 
a  soft  heart  by  nature,  and  as  he  is,  so  he  does  — 
religion  has  had  nothing  to  do  with  that,  any  more 
than  it  has  with  that  black-faced,  canting  scoundrel 
who  has  been  telling  you  lies  about  me.  Much  his 
heart  is  changed.  He  carries  sneak  and  slanderer 
written  in  his  face  —  and  sneak  and  slanderer  he 
will  be,  elect  or  none.  Religion?  Nobody  be- 
lieves in  it.  The  rich  don't ;  or  they  would  n't  fill 
their  churches  up  with  pews,  and  shut  the  poor 
out,  all  the  time  they  are  calling  them  brothers. 
They  believe  the  gospel  ?  Then  why  do  they  leave 
the  men  who  make  their  clothes  to  starve  in  such 
hells  on  earth  as  our  workroom  ?  No  more  do  the 
tradespeople  believe  in  it ;  or  they  would  n't  go 


The  Sceptic's  Mother  205 

home  from  sermon  to  sand  the  sugar,  and  put  sloe- 
leaves  in  the  tea,  and  send  out  lying  puffs  of  their 
vamped-up  goods,  and  grind  the  last  farthing  out 
of  the  poor  creatures  who  rent  their  wretched 
stinking  houses.  And  as  for  the  workmen  —  they 
laugh  at  it  all,  I  can  tell  you.  Much  good  religion 
is  doing  for  them  !  You  may  see  it 's  fit  only  for 
women  and  children  —  for  go  where  you  will, 
church  or  chapel,  you  see  hardly  anything  but 
bpnnets  and  babies !  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it, 
—  once  and  for  all.  I  'm  old  enough  to  think  for 
myself,  and  a  free-thinker  I  will  be,  and  believe 
nothing  but  what  I  know  and  understand." 

I  had  hardly  spoken  the  words,  when  I  would 
have  given  worlds  to  recall  them  —  but  it  was  to 
be  —  and  it  was. 

Sternly  she  looked  at  me  full  in  the  face,  till  my 
eyes  dropped  before  her  gaze.  Then  she  spoke 
steadily  and  slowly  — 

"  Leave  this  house  this  moment.  You  are  no 
son  of  mine  henceforward.  Do  you  think  I  will 
have  my  daughter  polluted  by  the  company  of  an 
infidel  and  a  blasphemer?" 

"  I  will  go,"  I  answered  fiercely ;  "  I  can  get  my 
own  living,  at  all  events  !  "  And  before  I  had  time 
to  think,  I  had  rushed  upstairs,  packed  up  my 
bundle,  not  forgetting  the  precious  books,  and 
was  on  my  way  through  the  frosty,  echoing  streets, 
under  the  cold  glare  of  the  winter's  moon. 

I  had  gone  perhaps  half  a  mile,  when  the  thought 
of  home  rushed  over  me —  the  little  room  where  I 
had  spent  my  life  —  the  scenes  of  all  my  childish 
joys  and  sorrows —  which  I  should  never  see  again, 
for  I  felt  that  my  departure  was  forever.  Then  I 
longed   to   see  my  mother  once   again  —  not  to 


2o6    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

speak  to  her  —  for  I  was  at  once  too  proud  and 
too  cowardly  to  do  that  —  but  to  have  a  look  at 
her  through  the  window.  One  look  —  for  all  the 
while,  though  I  was  boiling  'over  with  rage  and 
indignation,  I  felt  that  it  was  all  on  the  surface  — 
that  in  the  depths  of  our  hearts  I  loved  her  and  she 
loved  me.  And  yet  I  wished  to  be  angry,  wished 
to  hate  her.  Strange  contradiction  of  the  flesh  and 
spirit ! 

Hastily  and  silently  I  retraced  my  steps  to  the 
house.  The  gate  was  padlocked.  I  cautiously 
stole  over  the  palings  to  the  window  —  the  shutter 
was  closed  and  fast.  I  longed  to  knock  —  I  lifted 
my  hand  to  the  door,  and  dare  not :  indeed,  I  knew 
that  it  was  useless,  in  my  dread  of  my  mother's 
habit  of  stern  determination.  That  room  —  that 
mother  I  never  saw  again.  I  turned  away ;  sick- 
ened at  heart,  I  was  clambering  back  again,  look- 
ing behind  me  towards  the  window,  when  I  felt  a 
strong  grip  on  my  collar,  and  turning  round,  had 
a  policeman's  lantern  flashed  in  my  face. 

"  Hullo,  young  'un,  and  what  do  you  want  here?" 
with  a  strong  emphasis,  after  the  fashion  of  police- 
men, on  all  his  pronouns. 

"  Hush !  or  you  '11  alarm  my  mother  !  " 

"  Oh !  eh !  Forgot  the  latch-key,  you  sucking 
Don  Juan,  that's  it,  is  it?  Late  home  from  the 
Victory?" 

I  told  him  simply  how  the  case  stood,  and  en- 
treated him  to  get  me  a  night's  lodging,  assuring 
him  that  my  mother  would  not  admit  me,  or  I  ask 
to  be  admitted. 

The  policeman  seemed  puzzled,  but  after  scratch- 
ing his  hat  in  lieu  of  his  head  for  some  seconds 
replied  — 


The  Sceptic's  Mother  207 

"  This  here  is  the  dodge  —  you  goes  outside  and 
lies  down  on  the  kerb-stone ;  whereby  I  spies  you 
a-sleeping  in  the  streets,  contrary  to  Act  o'  Parlia- 
ment ;  whereby  it  is  my  duty  to  take  you  to  the 
station-house ;  whereby  you  gets  a  night's  lodging 
free  gracious  for  nothing,  and  company  perwided 
by  her  Majesty." 

"  Oh,  not  to  the  station-house !  "  I  cried  in  shame 
and  terror. 

"  Werry  well ;  then  you  must  keep  moving  all 
night  continually,  whereby  you  avoids  the  hact; 
or  else  you  goes  to  a  twopenny-rope  shop  and 
gets  a  lie  down.  And  your  bundle  you  'd  best 
leave  at  my  house.  Twopenny-rope  society  a'n't 
particular.  I'm  going  off  my  beat;  you  walk 
home  with  me  and  leave  your  traps.  Everybody 
knows  me  — Costello,  V  21,  that's  my  number." 

So  on  I  went  with  the  kind-hearted  man,  who 
preached  solemnly  to  me  all  the  way  on  the  fifth 
commandment.  But  I  heard  very  little  of  it ;  for 
before  I  had  proceeded  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  a 
deadly  faintness  and  dizziness  came  over  me,  I 
staggered,  and  fell  against  the  railings. 

"  And  have  you  been  drinking,  arter  all?" 

"  I  never a  drop  in  my  life nothing  but 

bread-and-water  this  fortnight." 

And  it  was  true.  I  had  been  paying  for  my 
own  food,  and  had  stinted  myself  to  such  an  ex- 
tent, that  between  starvation,  want  of  sleep,  and 
over-exertion,  I  was  worn  to  a  shadow,  and  the 
last  drop  had  filled  the  cup ;  the  evening's  scene 
and  its  consequences  had  been  too  much  for  me, 
and  in  the  middle  of  an  attempt  to  explain  matters 
to  the  policeman,  I  dropped  on  the  pavement, 
bruising  my  face  heavily. 


2o8     Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

He  picked  me  up,  put  me  under  one  arm  and 
my  bundle  under  the  other,  and  was  proceeding 
on  his  march,  when  three  men  came  rollicking  up. 

"  Hullo,  Poleax—  Costello  — What  'sthat?  Work 
for  us?     A  demp  unpleasant  body?  " 

**  Oh,  Mr.  Bromley,  sir !  Hope  you  're  well,  sir ! 
Werry  rum  go  this  here,  sir !  I  finds  this  cove  in 
the  streets.  He  says  his  mother  turned  him  out 
o'  doors.  He  seems  very  fair  spoken,  and  very 
bad  in  he's  head,  and  very  bad  in  he's  chest,  and 
very  bad  in  he's  legs,  he  does.  And  I  can't 
come  to  no  conclusions  respecting  my  conduct 
in  this  here  case,  nohow !  " 

"  Memorialize  the  Health  of  Towns  Commission," 
suggested  one. 

"  Bleed  him  in  the  great  toe,"  said  the  second. 

"  Put  a  blister  on  the  back  of  his  left  eyeball," 
said  a  third. 

"  Case  of  male  asterisks,"  observed  the  first.  **  Rj. 
Aquae  pumpis  purae  quantum  sufif.  Applicatur 
exter6  pro  re  natd.  J.  Bromley,  M.D.,  and  don't 
he  wish  he  may  get  through !  " 

"  Tip  us  your  daddle,  my  boy,"  said  the  second 
speaker.  "  I  '11  tell  you  what,  Bromley,  this  fel- 
low 's  very  bad.  He 's  got  no  more  pulse  than 
the  Pimlico  sewer.  Run  in  into  the  next  pot'us. 
Here  —  you  lay  hold  of  him,  Bromley  —  that  last 
round  with  the  cabman  nearly  put  my  humerus 
out." 

The  huge,  burly,  pea-jacketed  medical  student 
—  for  such  I  saw  at  once  he  was  —  laid  hold  of 
me  on  the  right  tenderly  enough,  and  walked  me 
off  between  him  and  the  policeman. 

I  fell  again  into  a  faintness,  from  which  I  was 
awakened  by  being  shoved  through  the  folding- 


The  Sceptic's  Mother  209 

doors  of  a  gin-shop,  into  a  glare  of  light  and 
hubbub  of  blackguardism,  and  placed  on  a  settle, 
while  my  conductor  called  out  — 

"  Pots  round,  Mary,  and  a  go  of  brandy  hot  with, 
for  the  patient.  Here,  young  'un,  toss  it  off,  it  '11 
make  your  hair  grow." 

I  feebly  answered  that  I  never  had  drunk  any- 
thing stronger  than  water. 

"  High  time  to  begin,  then ;  no  wonder  you  're 
so  ill.     Well,  if  you  won't,  I  '11  make  you " 

And  taking  my  head  under  his  arm,  he  seized 
me  by  the  nose,  while  another  poured  the  liquor 
down  my  throat  —  and  certainly  it  revived  me  at 
once. 

A  drunken  drab  pulled  another  drunken  drab 
off  the  settle  to  make  room  for  the  "  poor  young 
man "  ;  and  I  sat  there  with  a  confused  notion 
that  something  strange  and  dreadful  had  happened 
to  me,  while  the  party  drained  their  respective 
quarts  of  porter,  and  talked  over  the  last  boat- 
race  with  the  Leander. 

"Now  then,  gen'l'men,"  said  the  policeman,  "if 
you  think  he  's  recovered,  we'll  take  him  home  to 
his  mother ;  she  ought  for  to  take  him  in,  surely." 

"  Yes,  if  she  has  as  much  heart  in  her  as  a  dried 
walnut." 

But  I  resisted  stoutly;  though  I  longed  to  vin- 
dicate my  mother's  affection,  yet  I  could  not  face 
her.  I  entreated  to  be  taken  to  the  station-house ; 
threatened,  in  my  desperation,  to  break  the  bar 
glasses,  which,  like  Doll  Tearsheet's  abuse,  only 
elicited  from  the  policeman  a  solemn  "Very  well"; 
and  under  the  unwonted  excitement  of  the  brandy, 
struggled  so  fiercely,  and  talked  so  incoherently, 
that  the  medical  students  interfered. 

Vol.  in— 10 


21  o     Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

"  We  shall  have  this  fellow  in  phrenitis,  or  laryn- 
gitis, or  dothenenteritis,  or  some  other  itis,  before 
long,  if  he  's  aggravated." 

"  And  whichever  it  is,  it  '11  kill  him.  He  has  no 
more  stamina  left  than  a  yard  of  pump  water." 

"  I  should  consider  him  chargeable  to  the  parish," 
suggested  the  bar-keeper. 

"  Exactually  so,  my  Solomon  of  licensed  victual- 
lers.    Get  a  workhouse  order  for  him,  Costello." 

"  And  I  should  consider,  also,  sir,"  said  the  li- 
censed victualler,  with  increased  importance,  "  hav- 
ing been  a  guardian  myself,  and  knowing  the 
hact,  as  the  parish  could  n't  refuse,  because  they're 
in  power  to  recover  all  hexpenses  out  of  his 
mother." 

"  To  be  sure ;  it  *s  all  the  unnatural  old  witch's 
fault." 

"  No,  it  is  not,"  said  I,  faintly. 

"  Wait  till  your  opinion  's  asked,  young  *un.  Go 
kick  up  the  authorities,  policeman." 

"  Now,  I  '11  just  tell  you  how  that  '11  work,  gem- 
men,"  answered  the  policeman,  solemnly.  "  I  goes 
to  the  overseer  —  werry  good  sort  o'  man  —  but 
he 's  in  bed.  I  knocks  for  half  an  hour.  He  puts 
his  nightcap  out  o'  windy,  and  sends  me  to  the 
relieving-officer.  Werry  good  sort  o'  man  he  too ; 
but  he 's  in  bed.  I  knocks  for  another  half-hour. 
He  puts  his  nightcap  out  o'  windy  —  sends  me  to 
the  medical  officer  for  a  certificate.  Medical  offi- 
cer 's  gone  to  a  midwifery  case,  I  hunts  him  for  an 
hour  or  so.  He 's  got  hold  of  a  babby  with  three 
heads,  or  summat  else;  and  two  more  women 
a-calling  out  for  him  like  blazes.  *  He  '11  come  to- 
morrow morning.'  Now,  I  just  axes  your  opinion 
of  that  there  most  procrastinationest  go." 


The  Sceptic's  Mother  211 

The  big  student,  having  cursed  the  parochial 
authorities  in  general,  offered  to  pay  for  my  night's 
lodging  at  the  public-house.  The  good  man  of  the 
house  demurred  at  first,  but  relented  on  being  re- 
minded of  the  value  of  a  medical  student's  custom : 
whereon,  without  more  ado,  two  of-  the  rough  dia- 
monds took  me  between  them,  carried  me  upstairs, 
undressed  me,  and  put  me  to  bed,  as  tenderly  as  if 
they  had  been  women. 

"  He  '11  have  the  tantrums  before  morning,  I  'm 
afraid,"  said  one. 

"  Very  likely  to  turn  to  typhus,"  said  the  other. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  —  it's  a  horrid  bore,  but 

What  must  be  must ;  man  is  but  dust, 

If  you  can't  get  crumb,  you  must  just  eat  crust. 

Send  me  up  a  go  of  hot  with,  and  I  '11  sit  up  with 
him  till  he 's  asleep,  dead,  or  better." 

"  Well,  then,  I  '11  stay  too ;  we  may  just  as  well 
make  a  night  of  it  here  as  well  as  anywhere  else." 

And  he  pulled  a  short  black  pipe  out  of  his 
pocket,  and  sat  down  to  meditate  with  his  feet  on 
the  hobs  of  the  empty  grate ;  the  other  man  went 
down  for  the  liquor ;  while  I,  between  the  brandy 
and  exhaustion,  fell  fast  asleep,  and  never  stirred 
till  I  woke  the  next  morning  with  a  racking  head- 
ache, and  saw  the  big  student  standing  by  my  bed- 
side, having,  as  I  afterwards  heard,  sat  by  me  till 
four  in  the  morning. 

"  Hullo,  young  'un,  come  to  your  senses? 
Headache,  eh?  Slightly  comato-crapulose?  We'll 
give  you  some  soda  and  sal-volatile,  and  I  '11  pay  for 
your  breakfast." 

And  so  he  did,  and  when  he  was  joined  by  his 
companions  on  their  way  to  St.  George's,  they  were 


2 1 2     Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

very  anxious,  having  heard  my  story,  to  force  a  few 
shillings  on  me  "  for  luck,"  which,  I  need  not  say,  I 
peremptorily  refused,  assuring  them  that  I  could 
and  would  get  my  own  living,  and  never  take  a 
farthing  from  any  man. 

"That's  a  phicky  dog,  though  he's  a  tailor,"  I 
heard  them  say,  as,  after  overwhelming  them  with 
thanks,  and  vowing,  amid  shouts  of  laughter,  to 
repay  them  every  farthing  I  had  cost  them,  I  took 
my  way,  sick  and  stunned,  towards  my  dear  old 
Sandy  Mackaye's  street. 

Rough  diamonds  indeed  !  I  have  never  met  you 
again,  but  I  have  not  forgotten  you.  Your  early 
life  may  be  a  coarse,  too  often  a  profligate  one  — 
but  you  know  the  people,  and  the  people  know 
you :  and  your  tenderness  and  care,  bestowed  with- 
out hope  of  repayment,  cheers  daily  many  a  poor 
soul  in  hospital  wards  and  fever-cellars  —  to  meet 
its  reward  some  day  at  the  people's  hands.  You 
belong  to  us  at  heart,  as  the  Paris  barricades  can 
tell.  Alas !  for  the  society  which  stifles  in  after-life 
too  many  of  your  better  feelings,  by  making  you 
mere  flunkeys  and  parasites,  dependent  for  your 
livelihood  on  the  caprices  and  luxuries  of  the 
rich. 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE    DULWICH    GALLERY 

SANDY  MACKAYE  received  me  in  a  charac- 
teristic way  —  growled  at  me  for  half  an  hour 
for  quarrelling  with  my  mother,  and  when  I  was  at 
my  wits'  end,  suddenly  offered  me  a  bed  in  his 
house  and  the  use  of  his  little  sitting-room  —  and, 
bliss  too  great  to  hope !  of  his  books  also ;  and 
when  I  talked  of  payment,  told  me  to  hold  my 
tongue  and  mind  my  own  business.  So  I  settled 
myself  at  once ;  and  that  very  evening  he  installed 
himself  as  my  private  tutor,  took  down  a  Latin 
book,  and  set  me  to  work  on  it. 

"  An'  mind  ye,  laddie,"  said  he,  half  in  jest  and 
half  in  earnest,  "  gin  I  find  ye  playing  truant,  and 
reading  a'  sorts  o'  nonsense  instead  of  minding  the 
scholastic  methods  and  proprieties,  I  '11  just  bring 
ye  in  a  bill  at  the  year's  end  o'  twa  guineas  a  week 
for  lodgings  and  tuition,  and  tak'  the  law  o'  ye ;  so 
mind  and  read  what  I  tell  ye.  Do  you  compre- 
hend noo  ?  " 

I  did  comprehend,  and  obeyed  him,  determining 
to  repay  him  some  day  —  and  somehow  —  how  I 
did  not  very  clearly  see.  Thus  I  put  myself  more 
or  less  into  the  old  man's  power;  foolishly  enough 
the  wise  world  will  say.  But  I  had  no  suspicion 
in  my  character;  and  I  could  not  look  at  those 


214    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

keen  gray  eyes,  when,  after  staring  into  vacancy 
during  some  long  preachment,  they  suddenly 
flashed  round  at  me,  and  through  me,  full  of  fun 
and  quaint  thought,  and  kindly  earnestness,  and 
fancy  that  man  less  honest  than  his  face  seemed  to 
proclaim  him. 

By  the  bye,  I  have  as  yet  given  no  description 
of  the  old  eccentric's  abode — an  unpardonable 
omission,  I  suppose,  in  these  days  of  Dutch  paint- 
ing and  Boz.  But  the  omission  was  correct,  both 
historically  and  artistically,  for  I  had  as  yet  only 
gone  to  him  for  books,  books,  nothing  but  books ; 
and  I  had  been  blind  to  everything  in  his  shop 
but  that  fairyland  of  shelves,  filled,  in  my  simple 
fancy,  with  inexhaustible  treasures,  wonder-working, 
omnipotent,  as  the  magic  seal  of  Solomon. 

It  was  not  till  I  had  been  settled  and  at  work 
for  several  nights  in  his  sanctum,  behind  the  shop, 
that  I  began  to  become  conscious  what  a  strange 
den  that  sanctum  was. 

It  was  so  dark,  that  without  a  gaslight  no  one 
but  he  could  see  to  read  there,  except  on  very 
sunny  days.  Not  only  were  the  shelves  which 
covered  every  inch  of  wall  crammed  with  books 
and  pamphlets,  but  the  little  window  was  blocked 
up  with  them,  the  floor  was  piled  with  bundles  of 
them,  in  some  places  three  feet  deep,  apparently 
in  the  wildest  confusion  —  though  there  was  some 
mysterious  order  in  them  which  he  understood, 
and  symbolized,  I  suppose,  by  the  various  strange 
and  ludicrous  nicknames  on  their  tickets  —  for  he 
never  was  at  fault  a  moment  if  a  customer  asked 
for  a  book,  though  it  were  buried  deep  in  the 
chaotic  stratum.  Out  of  this  book  alluvium  a  hole 
seemed  to  have  been  dug  near  the  fireplace,  just 


The  Dulwich  Gallery  215 

big  enough  to  hold  his  arm-chair  and  a  table, 
book-strewn  like  everything  else,  and  garnished 
with  odds  and  ends  of  MSS.,  and  a  snuffer-tray 
containing  scraps  of  half-smoked  tobacco,  "  pipe- 
cfottles,"  as  he  called  them,  which  were  carefully 
resmoked  over  and  over  again,  till  nothing  but  ash 
was  left.  His  whole  culinary  utensils  —  for  he 
cooked  as  well  as  ate  in  this  strange  hole  —  were 
an  old  rusty  kettle,  which  stood  on  one  hob,  and 
a  blue  plate,  which,  when  washed,  stood  on  the 
other.  A  barrel  of  true  Aberdeen  meal  peered 
out  of  a  corner,  half  buried  in  books,  and  a  "  keg  o' 
whusky,  the  gift  o'  freens,"  peeped  in  like  case  out 
of  another. 

This  was  his  only  food.  "  It  was  a'  poison,"  he 
used  to  say  "  in  London.  Bread  full  o'  alum  and 
bones,  and  sic  filth  —  meat  overdriven  till  it  was 
a'  braxy  —  water  sopped  wi'  dead  men's  juice. 
Naething  was  safe  but  gude  Scots  parrich  and 
Athol  brose."  He  carried  his  water-horror  so  far 
as  to  walk  some  quarter  of  a  mile  every  morning 
to  fill  his  kettle  at  a  favorite  pump.  "  Was  he  a 
cannibal,  to  drink  out  o'  that  pump  hard-by,  right 
under  the  kirkyard  ?  "  But  it  was  little  he  either 
ate  or  drank  —  he  seemed  to  live  upon  tobacco. 
From  four  in  the  morning  till  twelve  at  night,  the 
pipe  never  left  his  lips,  except  when  he  went  into 
the  outer  shop.  "  It  promoted  meditation,  and 
drove  awa'  the  lusts  o'  the  flesh.  Ech !  it  was 
worthy  o'  that  auld  tyrant,  Jamie,  to  write  his 
counter-blast  to  the  poor  man's  freen !  The  hypo- 
crite !  to  gang  preaching  the  virtues  o'  evil-savored 
smoke  '  ad  daemones  abigendos,'  —  and  then  rail 
again  tobacco,  as  if  it  was  no  as  gude  for  the 
purpose  as  auld  rags  and  horn  shavings !  " 


2 1 6     Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

Sandy  Mackaye  had  a  great  fancy  for  political 
caricatures,  rows  of  which,  there  being  no  room 
for  them  on  the  walls.  Hung  on  strings  from  the 
ceiling — like  clothes  hung  out  to  dry  —  and  among 
them  dangled  various  books  to  which  he  had  taken 
an  antipathy,  principally  High  Tory  and  Ben- 
thamite, crucified,  impaled  through  their  covers, 
and  suspended  in  all  sorts  of  torturing  attitudes. 
Among  them,  right  over  the  table,  figured  a  copy 
of  Icon  Basilike  dressed  up  in  a  paper  shirt,  all 
drawn  over  with  figures  of  flames  and  devils,  and 
surmounted  by  a  peaked  paper  cap,  like  a  victim 
at  an  auto-da-f6.  And  in  the  midst  of  all  this  chaos 
grinned  from  the  chimney-piece,  among  pipes  and 
pens,  pinches  of  salt  and  scraps  of  butter,  a  tall  cast 
of  Michael  Angelo's  well-known  skinless  model  — 
his  pristine  white  defaced  by  a  cap  of  soot  upon 
the  top  of  his  scalpless  skull,  and  every  muscle 
and  tendon  thrown  into  horrible  relief  by  the  dirt 
which  had  lodged  among  the  cracks.  There  it 
stood,  pointing  with  its  ghastly  arm  towards  the 
door,  and  holding  on  its  wrist  a  label  with  the 
following  inscription  — 

Here  stand  I,  the  workingman, 
Get  more  off  me  if  you  can. 

I  questioned  Mackaye  one  evening  about  those 
hanged  and  crucified  books,  and  asked  him  if  he 
ever  sold  any  of  them. 

**  Ou,  ay,"  he  said :  "  if  folks  are  fools  enough  to 
ask  for  them,  I  '11  just  answer  a  fool  according  to 
his  folly." 

"  But,"  I  said,  "  Mr.  Mackaye,  do  you  think  it 
right  to  sell  books  of  the  very  opinions  of  which 
you  disapprove  so  much?" 


The  Dulwich  Gallery  217 

"  Hoot,  laddie,  it's  just  a  spoiling  o'  the  Egyp- 
tians; so  mind  yer  book,  and  dinna  tak  in  hand 
cases  o'  conscience  for  ither  folk.  Ye  '11  ha'  wark 
eneugh  wi'  yer  ain  before  ye  're  dune." 

And  he  folded  round  his  knees  his  Joseph's  coat, 
as  he  called  it,  an  old  dressing-gown  with  one  plaid 
sleeve,  and  one  blue  one,  red  shawl-skirts,  and  a 
black  broadcloth  back,  not  to  mention  innumer- 
able patches  of  every  imaginable  stuff  and  color, 
filled  his  pipe,  and  buried  his  nose  in  "  Harrington's 
Oceana."  He  read  at  least  twelve  hours  every  day 
of  his  life,  and  that  exclusively  old  history  and 
politics,  though  his  favorite  books  were  Thomas 
Carlyle's  works.  Two  or  three  evenings  in  the 
week,  when  he  had  seen  me  safe  settled  at  my 
studies,  he  used  to  disappear  mysteriously  for 
several  hours,  and  it  was  some  time  before  I  found 
out,  by  a  chance  expression,  that  he  was  attending 
some  meeting  or  committee  of  workingmen.  I 
begged  him  to  take  me  there  with  him.  But  I  was 
stopped  by  a  laconic  answer  — 

"  When  ye  're  ready." 

"And  when  shall  I  be  ready,  Mr.  Mackaye?" 

"  Read  yer  book  till  I  tell  ye." 

And  he  twisted  himself  into  his  best  coat,  which 
had  once  been  black,  squeezed  on  his  little  Scotch 
cap,  and  went  out. 

I  now  found  myself,  as  the  reader  may  suppose, 
in  an  element  far  more  congenial  to  my  literary 
tastes,  and  which  compelled  far  less  privation  of 
sleep  and  food  in  order  to  find  time  and  means  for 
reading ;  and  my  health  began  to  mend  from  the 
very  first  day.  But  the  thought  of  my  mother 
haunted  me ;  and  Mackaye  seemed  in  no  hurry  to 


21 8     Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

let  me  escape  from  it,  for  he  insisted  on  my  writ- 
ing to  her  in  a  penitent  strain,  informing  her  of 
my  whereabouts,  and  offering  to  return  home  if 
she  should  wish  it.  With  feelings  strangely  min- 
gled between  the  desire  of  seeing  her  again  and 
the  dread  of  returning  to  the  old  drudgery  of  sur- 
veillance, I  sent  the  letter,  and  waited  the  whole 
week  without  any  answer.  At  last,  one  evening, 
when  I  returned  from  work,  Sandy  seemed  in  a 
state  of  unusual  exhilaration.  He  looked  at  me 
again  and  again,  winking  and  chuckling  to  himself 
in  a  way  which  showed  me  that  his  good  spirits 
had  something  to  do  with  my  concerns:  but  he 
did  not  open  on  the  subject  till  I  had  settled  to  my 
evening's  reading.  Then,  having  brewed  himself 
an  unusually  strong  mug  of  whislcy-toddy,  and 
brought  out  with  great  ceremony  a  clean  pipe,  he 
commenced. 

"  Alton,  laddie,  I  've  been  fiechting  Philistines 
for  ye  the  day." 

"  Ah  !  have  you  heard  from  my  mother  ?  " 

"  I  wadna  say  that  exactly ;  but  there 's  been  a 
gran  bailie  body  wi'  me  that  calls  himsel'  your 
uncle,  and  a  braw  young  callant,  a  bairn  o'  his, 
I  'm  thinking," 

"  Ah !  that 's  my  cousin  George ;  and  tell  me  — 
do  tell  me,  what  you  said  to  them." 

"  Ou  —  that  '11  be  mair  concern  o'  mine  than  o* 
yourn.     But  ye  're  no  going  back  to  your  mither." 

My  heart  leapt  up  with  — joy ;  there  is  no  deny- 
ing it  —  and  then  I  burst  into  tears. 

"And  she  won't  see  me?  Has  she  really  cast 
me  off?" 

"Why,  that'll  be  verra  much  as  ye  prosper, 
I  'm  thinking.    Ye  're  an  unaccreedited  hero,  the 


The  Dulwich  Gallery  219 

noo,  as  Thomas  Carlyle  has  it.  *  But  gin  ye  do 
weel  by  yoursel','  saith  the  Psalmist,  *  ye  '11  find  a' 
men  speak  well  o'  ye'  —  if  ye  gang  their  gate. 
But  ye  're  to  gang  to  see  your  uncle  at  his  shop 
o'  Monday  next,  at  one  o'clock.  Now  stint  your 
greeting,  and  read  awa'." 

On  the  next  Monday  I  took  a  holiday,  the  first 
in  which  I  had  ever  indulged  myself;  and  having 
spent  a  good  hour  in  scrubbing  away  at  my  best 
shoes  and  Sunday  suit,  started,  in  fear  and  trem- 
bling, for  my  uncle's  "  establishment." 

I  was  agreeably  surprised,  on  being  shown  into 
the  little  back  office  at  the  back  of  the  shop,  to 
meet  with  a  tolerably  gracious  reception  from  the 
good-natured  Mammonite.  He  did  not  shake 
hands  with  me,  it  is  true ;  —  was  I  not  a  poor  re- 
lation? But  he  told  me  to  sit  down,  commended 
me  for  the  excellent  character  which  he  had  of  me 
both  from  my  master  and  Mackaye,  and  then  en- 
tered on  the  subject  of  my  literary  tastes.  He 
heard  I  was  a  precious  clever  fellow.  No  wonder, 
I  came  of  a  clever  stock ;  his  poor  dear  brother 
had  plenty  of  brains  for  everything  but  business. 
"  And  you  see,  my  boy  "  (with  a  glance  at  the  big 
ledgers  and  busy  shop  without),  "  I  knew  a  thing 
or  two  in  my  time,  or  I  should  not  have  been  here. 
But  without  capital,  /  think  brains  a  curse.  Still 
we  must  make  the  best  of  a  bad  matter;  and  if 
you  are  inclined  to  help  to  raise  the  family  name 
—  not  that  I  think  much  of  book  writers  myself — 
poor  starving  devils,  half  of  them  —  but  still  peo- 
ple do  talk  about  them  —  and  a  man  might  get  a 
snug  thing  as  newspaper  editor,  with  interest;  or 
clerk  to  something  or  other  —  always  some  new 
company  in  the  wind  now  —  and  I  should  have  no 


220    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

objection,  if  you  seemed  likely  to  do  us  credit,  to 
speak  a  word  for  you.  I  've  none  of  your  mother's 
confounded  puritanical  notions,  I  can  tell  you; 
and,  what 's  more,  I  have,  thank  Heaven,  as  fine  a 
city  connection  as  any  man.  But  you  must  mind 
and  make  yourself  a  good  accountant  —  learn 
double  entry  on  the  Italian  method  —  that 's  a 
good  practical  study ;  and  if  that  old  Sawney  is  soft 
enough  to  teach  you  other  things  gratis,  he  may  as 
well  teach  you  that  too.  I  '11  bet  he  knows  some-  , 
thing  about  it  —  the  old  Scotch  fox.  There  now 
—  that  '11  do  —  there 's  five  shillings  for  you  — 
mind  you  don't  lose  them  —  and  if  I  hear  a  good 
account  of  you,  why,  perhaps  —  but  there 's  no  use 
making  promises." 

At  this  moment  a  tall  handsome  young  man, 
whom  I  did  not  at  first  recognize  as  my  cousin 
George,  swung  into  the  office,  and  shook  me  cor- 
dially by  the  hand. 

"  Hullo,  Alton,  how  are  you  ?  Why,  I  hear 
you  're  coming  out  as  a  regular  genius  —  breaking 
out  in  a  new  place,  upon  my  honor !  Have  you 
done  with  him,  governor?" 

"  Well,  I  think  I  have.  I  wish  you  'd  have  a 
talk  with  him,  my  boy.  I  'm  sorry  I  can't  see 
more  of  him,  but  I  have  to  meet  a  party  on  busi- 
ness at  the  West-end  at  two,  and  Alderman  Tum- 
bril and  family  dine  with  us  this  evening,  don't 
they?     I  think  our  small  table  will  be  full." 

"  Of  course  it  will.  Come  along  with  me,  and 
we'll  have  a  chat  in  some  quiet  out-of-the-way 
place.  This  city  is  really  so  noisy  that  you  can't 
hear  your  own  ears,  as  our  dean  says  in  lecture." 

So  he  carried  me  off,  down  back  streets  and 
alleys,  a  little  puzzled  at  the  extreme  cordiality  of 


The  Dulwich  Gallery  221 

his  manner.  Perhaps  it  sprung,  as  I  learned  after- 
ward to  suspect,  from  his  consistent  and  perpetual 
habit  of  ingratiating  himself  with  every  one  whom 
he  approached.  He  never  cut  a  chimney-sweep  if 
he  knew  him.  And  he  found  it  pay.  The  children 
of  this  world  are  in  their  generation  wiser  than  the 
children  of  light. 

Perhaps  it  sprung  also,  as  I  began  to  suspect  in 
the  first  hundred  yards  of  our  walk,  from  the  desire 
of  showing  off  before  me  the  university  clothes, 
manners,  and  gossip,  which  he  had  just  brought 
back  with  him  from  Cambridge. 

I  had  not  seen  him  more  than  three  or  four 
times  in  my  life  before,  and  then  he  appeared  to 
me  merely  a  tall,  handsome,  conceited,  slangy  boy. 
But  I  now  found  him  much  improved  —  in  all  ex- 
ternals at  least.  He  had  made  it  his  business,  I 
knew,  to  perfect  himself  in  all  athletic  pursuits 
which  were  open  to  a  Londoner.  As  he  told  me 
that  day  —  he  found  it  pay,  when  one  got  among 
gentlemen.  Thus  he  had  gone  up  to  Cambridge  a 
capital  skater,  rower,  pugilist  —  and  billiard  player. 
Whether  or  not  that  last  accomplishment  ought  to 
be  classed  in  the  list  of  athletic  sports,  he  contrived, 
by  his  own  account,  to  keep  it  in  that  of  paying 
ones.  In  both  these  branches  he  seemed  to 
have  had  plenty  of  opportunities  of  distinguishing 
himself  at  college ;  and  his  tall,  powerful  figure 
showed  the  fruit  of  these  exercises  in  a  stately  and 
confident,  almost  martial,  carriage.  Something 
jaunty,  perhaps  swaggering,  remained  still  in  his 
air  and  dress,  which  yet  sat  not  ungracefully  on 
him ;  but  I  could  see  that  he  had  been  mixing  in 
society  more  polished  and  artificial  than  that  to 
which  we  had  either  of  us  been  accustomed,  and  in 


2  22    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

his  smart  Rochester,  well-cut  trousers,  and  delicate 
French  boots,  he  excited,  I  will  not  deny  it,  my 
boyish  admiration  and  envy. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  as  soon  as  we  were  out  of  the 
shop,  "which  way?  Got  a  holiday?  And  how 
did  you  intend  to  spend  it?" 

"  I  wanted  very  much,"  I  said  meekly,  "  to  see 
the  pictures  at  the  National  Gallery." 

"Oh!  ah!  pictures  don't  pay;  but,  if  you  like 

—  much  better  ones  at  Dulwich  —  that 's*  the 
place  to  go  to  —  you  can  see  the  others  any  day 

—  and  at  Dulwich,  you  know,  they  've  got  —  why, 
let  me  see "  And  he  ran  over  half  a  dozen  out- 
landish names  of  painters,  which,  as  I  have  never 
again  met  with  them,  I  am  inclined  on  the  whole  to 
consider  as  somewhat  extemporaneous  creations. 
However,  I  agreed  to  go. 

"  Ah  !  capital  —  very  nice  quiet  walk,  and  con- 
venient for  me  —  very  little  out  of  my  way  home. 
I  '11  walk  there  with  you." 

"  One  word  for  your  neighbor  and  two  for 
yourself,"  thought  I;  but  on  we  walked.  To  see 
good  pictures  had  been  a  long-cherished  hope  of 
mine.  Everything  beautiful  in  form  or  color  was 
beginning  of  late  to  have  an  intense  fascination  for 
me.  I  had,  now  that  I  was  emancipated,  gradually 
dared  to  feed  my  greedy  eyes  by  passing  stares 
into  the  print-shop  windows,  and  had  learnt  from 
them  a  thousand  new  notions,  new  emotions,  new 
longings  after  beauties  of  Nature,  which  seemed 
destined  never  to  be  satisfied.  But  pictures,  above 
all,  foreign  ones,  had  been  in  my  mother's  eyes. 
Anathema,  Maranatha,  as  vile  Popish  and  Pagan 
vanities,  the  rags  of  the  scarlet  woman  no  less  than 
the  surplice  itself —  and  now,  when  it  came  to  the 


The  Dulwich  Gallery  223 

point,  I  hesitated  at  an  act  of  such  awful  disobe- 
dience, even  though  unknown  to  her.  My  cousin, 
however,  laughed  down  my  scruples,  told  me  I 
was  out  of  leading-strings  now,  and,  which  was  true 
enough,  that  it  was  "  a  .  .  .  deal  better  to  amuse 
oneself  in  picture  galleries  without  leave,  than  live 
a  life  of  sneaking  and  lying  under  petticoat  govern- 
ment, as  all  home-birds  were  sure  to  do  in  the  long- 
run."  And  so  I  went  on,  while  my  cousin  kept  up 
a  running  fire  of  chat  the  whole  way,  intermixing 
shrewd,  bold  observations  upon  every  woman  who 
passed,  with  sneers  at  the  fellows  of  the  college  to 
which  we  were  going — their  idleness  and  luxury 
—  the  large  grammar-school  which  they  were 
bound  by  their  charter  to  keep  up,  and  did  not  — 
and  hints  about  private  interest  in  high  quarters, 
through  which  their  wealthy  uselessness  had  been 
politely  overlooked,  when  all  similar  institutions  in 
the  kingdom  were  subject  to  the  searching  exami- 
nation of  a  government  commission.  Then  there 
were  stories  of  boat-races  and  gay  noblemen, 
breakfast  parties,  and  lectures  on  Greek  plays 
flavored  with  a  spice  of  Cambridge  slang,  all 
equally  new  to  me  —  glimpses  into  a  world  of 
wonders,  which  made  me  feel,  as  I  shambled  along 
at  his  side,  trying  to  keep  step  with  his  strides, 
more  weakly  and  awkward  and  ignorant  than 
ever. 

We  entered  the  gallery.  I  was  in  a  fever  of 
expectation. 

The  rich  sombre  light  of  the  rooms,  the  rich 
heavy  warmth  of  the  stove-heated  air,  the  brilliant 
and  varied  coloring  and  gilded  frames  which 
embroidered  the  walls,  the  hushed  earnestness  of  a 
few  artists,  who  were  copying,  and  the  few  visitors 


224    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

who  were  lounging  from  picture  to  picture,  struck 
me  at  once  with  mysterious  awe.  But  my  atten- 
tion was  in  a  moment  concentrated  on  one  figure 
opposite  to  me  at  the  farthest  end.  I  hurried 
straight  towards  it.  When  I  had  got  half-way  up 
the  gallery  I  looked  round  for  my  cousin.  He 
had  turned  aside  to  some  picture  of  a  Venus  which 
caught  my  eye  also,  but  which,  I  remember  now, 
only  raised  in  me  then  a  shudder  and  a  blush,  and  a 
fancy  that  the  clergymen  must  be  really  as  bad  as 
my  mother  had  taught  me  to  believe,  if  they  could 
allow  in  their  galleries  pictures  of  undressed 
women.  I  have  learnt  to  view  such  things  differ- 
ently now,  thank  God.  I  have  learnt  that  to  the 
pure  all  things  are  pure.  I  have  learnt  the  mean- 
ing of  that  great  saying  —  the  foundation  of  all  art, 
as  well  as  all  modesty,  all  love,  which  tells  us  how 
"  the  man  and  his  wife  were  both  naked,  and  not 
ashamed."  But  this  book  is  the  history  of  my 
mental  growth;  and  my  mistakes  as  well  as  my 
discoveries  are  steps  in  that  development,  and  may 
bear  a  lesson  in  them. 

How  I  have  rambled  !  But  as  that  day  was  the 
turning-point  of  my  whole  short  life,  I  may  be  ex- 
cused for  lingering  upon  every  feature  of  it. 

Timidly  but  eagerly,  I  went  up  to  the  picture, 
and  stood  entranced  before  it.  It  was  Guido's  St. 
Sebastian.  All  the  world  knows  the  picture,  and 
all  the  world  knows,  too,  the  defects  of  the  master, 
though  in  this  instance  he  seems  to  have  risen 
above  himself,  by  a  sudden  inspiration,  into  that 
true  naturalness,  which  is  the  highest  expression 
of  the  spiritual.  But  the  very  defects  of  the  pic- 
ture, its  exaggeration,  its  theatricality,  were  espe- 
cially calculated  to  catch  the  eye  of  a  boy  awakine 


The  Dulwich  Gallery  225 

out  of  the  narrow  dulness  of  Puritanism.  The 
breadth  and  vastness  of  light  and  shade  upon  those 
manly  limbs,  so  grand  and  yet  so  delicate,  stand- 
ing out  against  the  background  of  lurid  night,  the 
helplessness  of  the  bound  arms,  the  arrow  quiver- 
ing in  the  shrinking  side,  the  upturned  brow,  the 
eyes  in  whose  dark  depths  enthusiastic  faith 
seemed  conquering  agony  and  shame,  the  parted 
lips,  which  seemed  to  ask,  like  those  martyrs  in 
the  Revelations,  reproachful,  half-resigned,  "  O 
Lord,  how  long?  "  —  Gazing  at  that  picture  since, 
I  have  understood  how  the  idolatry  of  painted 
saints  could  arise  in  the  minds  even  of  the  most 
educated,  who  were  not  disciplined  by  that  stern 
regard  for  fact  which  is  —  or  ought  to  be  —  the 
strength  of  Englishmen.  I  have  understood  the 
heart  of  that  Italian  girl,  whom  some  such  picture 
of  St.  Sebastian,  perhaps  this  very  one,  excited,  as 
the  Venus  of  Praxiteles  the  Grecian  boy,  to  hope- 
less love,  madness,  and  death.  Then  I  had  never 
heard  of  St.  Sebastian.  I  did  not  dream  of  any 
connection  between  that,  or  indeed  any  picture, 
and  Christianity ;  and  yet,  as  I  stood  before  it,  I 
seemed  to  be  face  to  face  with  the  ghosts  of  my 
old  Puritan  forefathers,  to  see  the  spirit  which  sup- 
ported them  on  pillories  and  scaffolds  —  the  spirit 
of  that  true  St  Margaret,  the  Scottish  maiden 
whom  Claverhouse  and  his  soldiers  chained  to  a 
post  on  the  sea-sands  to  die  by  inches  in  the  rising 
tide,  till  the  sound  of  her  hymns  was  slowly 
drowned  in  the  dash  of  the  hungry  leaping  waves. 
My  heart  swelled  within  me,  my  eyes  seemed 
bursting  from  my  head  with  the  intensity  of  my 
gaze,  and  great  tears,  I  knew  not  why,  rolled 
slowly  down  my  face. 


226    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

A  woman's  voice  close  to  me,  gentle  yet  of 
deeper  tone  than  most,  woke  me  from  my  trance. 

"  You  seem  to  be  deeply  interested  in  that 
picture?" 

I  looked  round,  yet  not  at  the  speaker.  My 
eyes  before  they  could  meet  hers,  were  caught  by 
an  apparition  the  most  beautiful  I  had  ever  yet 
beheld.  And  what  —  what  —  have  I  seen  equal  to 
her  since?  Strange,  that  I  should  love  to  talk  of 
her.  Strange,  that  I  fret  at  myself  now  because  I 
cannot  set  down  on  paper  line  by  line,  and  hue  by 

hue,  that  wonderful  loveliness  of  which But  no 

matter.  Had  I  but  such  an  imagination  as  Pe- 
trarch, or  rather,  perhaps,  had  I  his  deliberate  cold 
self-consciousness,  what  volumes  of  similes  and 
conceits  I  might  pour  out,  connecting  that  peerless 
face  and  figure  with  all  lovely  things  which  heaven 
and  earth  contain.  As  it  is,  because  I  cannot  say 
all,  I  will  say  nothing,  but  repeat  to  the  end  again 
and  again,  Beautiful,  beautiful,  beautiful,  beyond 
all  statue,  picture,  or  poet's  dream.  Seventeen  — 
slight  but  rounded,  a  masque  and  features  delicate 
and  regular,  as  if  fresh  from  the  chisel  of  Praxiteles 
—  I  must  try  to  describe  after  all,  you  see  —  a  skin 
of  alabaster  (privet-flowers,  Horace  and  Ariosto 
would  have  said,  more  true  to  Nature),  stained 
with  the  faintest  flush;  auburn  hair,  with  that 
peculiar  crisped  wave  seen  in  the  old  Italian  pic- 
tures, and  the  warm,  dark  hazel  eyes  which  so 
often  accompany  it ;  lips  like  a  thread  of  vermilion, 
somewhat  too  thin,  perhaps  —  but  I  thought  little 
of  that  then ;  with  such  perfect  finish  and  grace  in 
every  line  and  hue  of  her  features  and  her  dress, 
down  to  the  little  fingers  and  nails,  which  showed 
through  her  thin  gloves,  that  she  seemed  to  my 


The  Dulwich  Gallery  227 

fancy  fresh  from  the  innermost  chamber  of  some 
enchanted  palace,  "where  no  air  of  heaven  could 
visit  her  cheek  too  roughly."  I  dropped  my  eyes 
quite  dazzled.  The  question  was  repeated  by  a 
lady  who  stood  with  her,  whose  face  I  remarked 
then  —  as  I  did  to  the  last,  alas  !  —  too  little ; 
dazzled  at  the  first  by  outward  beauty,  perhaps 
because  so  utterly  unaccustomed  to  it. 

"  It  is  indeed  a  wonderful  picture,"  I  said 
timidly.  "  May  I  ask  what  is  the  subject  of 
it?" 

"  Oh  !  don't  you  know?  "  said  the  young  beauty, 
with  a  smile  that  thrilled  through  me.  "  It  is  St. 
Sebastian." 

"I  —  I  am  very  much  ashamed,"  I  answered, 
coloring  up,  "  but  I  do  not  know  who  St.  Sebas- 
tian was.     Was  he  a  Popish  saint?  " 

A  tall,  stately  old  man,  who  stood  with  the  two 
ladies,  laughed  kindly.  "No,  not  till  they  made 
him  one  against  his  will ;  and  at  the  same  time,  by 
putting  him  into  the  mill  which  grinds  old  folks 
young  again,  converted  him  from  a  grizzled  old 
Roman  tribune  into  the  young  Apollo  of  Popery." 

"  You  will  puzzle  your  hearer,  my  dear  uncle," 
said  the  same  deep-toned  woman's  voice  which 
had  first  spoken  to  me.  "As  you  volunteered 
the  saint's  name,  Lillian,  you  shall  also  tell  his 
history." 

Simply  and  shortly,  with  just  feeling  enough  to 
send  through  me  a  fresh  thrill  of  delighted  interest, 
without  trenching  the  least  on  the  most  stately 
reserve,  she  told  me  the  well-known  history  of  the 
saint's  martyrdom. 

If  I  seem  minute  in  my  description,  let  those 
who  read  my  story  remember  that  such  courteous 


228     Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

dignity,  however  natural,  I  am  bound  to  believe, 
it  is  to  them,  was  to  me  an  utterly  new  excellence 
in  human  nature.  All  my  mother's  Spartan  noble- 
ness of  manner  seemed  unexpectedly  combined 
with  all  my  little  sister's  careless  ease. 

"  What  a  beautiful  poem  the  story  would  make  !  " 
said  I,  as  soon  as  I  recovered  my  thoughts. 

"Well  spoken,  young  man,"  answered  the  old 
gentleman.  "  Let  us  hope  that  your  seeing  a  sub- 
ject for  a  good  poem  will  be  the  first  step  towards 
your  writing  one." 

As  he  spoke,  he  bent  on  me  two  clear  gray  eyes, 
full  of  kindliness,  mingled  with  practised  discern- 
ment. I  saw  that  he  was  evidently  a  clergyman ; 
but  what  his  tight  silk  stockings  and  peculiar  hat 
denoted  I  did  not  know.  There  was  about  him 
the  air  of  a  man  accustomed  equally  to  thought, 
to  men,  and  to  power.  And  I  remarked  somewhat 
maliciously,  that  my  cousin,  who  had  strutted  up 
towards  us  on  seeing  me  talking  to  two  ladies,  the 
instant  he  caught  sight  of  those  black  silk  stockings 
and  that  strange  hat,  fell  suddenly  in  countenance, 
and  sidling  off  somewhat  meekly  into  the  back- 
ground, became  absorbed  in  the  examination  of  a 
Holy  Family. 

I  answered  something  humbly,  I  forget  what, 
which  led  to  a  conversation.  They  questioned  me 
as  to  my  name,  my  mother,  my  business,  my 
studies;  while  I  revelled  in  the  delight  of  stolen 
glances  at  my  new-found  Venus  Victrix,  who  was 
as  forward  as  any  of  them  in  her  questions  and  her 
interest.  Perhaps  she  enjoyed,  at  least  she  could 
not  help  seeing,  the  admiration  for  herself  which  I 
took  no  pains  to  conceal.  At  last  the  old  man  cut 
the  conversation  short  by  a  quiet  "  Good  morning, 


The  Dulwich  Gallery  229 

sir,"  which  astonished  me.  I  had  never  heard 
words  whose  tone  was  so  courteous  and  yet  so 
chillingly  peremptory.  As  they  turned  away,  he 
repeated  to  himself  once  or  twice,  as  if  to  fix  them 
in  his  mind,  my  name  and  my  master's,  and  awoke 
in  me,  perhaps  too  thoughtlessly,  a  tumult  of  vain 
hopes.  Once  and  again  the  beauty  and  her  com- 
panion looked  back  towards  me,  and  seemed  talk- 
ing of  me,  and  my  face  was  burning  scarlet,  when 
my  cousin  swung  up  in  his  hard,  off-hand  way. 

"  By  Jove,  Alton,  my  boy !  you  're  a  knowing 
fellow.  I  congratulate  you !  At  your  years,  in- 
deed !  to  rise  a  dean  and  two  beauties  at  the  first 
throw,  and  hook  them  fast !  " 

"A  dean  I  "  I  said,  in  some  trepidation. 

"  Ay,  a  live  dean  —  did  n't  you  see  the  cloven 
foot  sticking  out  from  under  his  shoe-buckle? 
What  news  for  your  mother !  What  will  the 
ghosts  of  your  grandfathers  to  the  seventh  genera- 
tion say  to  this,  Alton?  Colloquying  in  Pagan 
picture  galleries  with  shovel-hatted  Philistines ! 
And  that's  not  the  worst,  Alton,"  he  ran  on. 
"  Those  daughters  of  Moab  —  those  daughters  of 
Moab " 

"  Hold  your  tongue,"  I  said,  almost  crying  with 
vexation. 

"  Look  there,  if  you  want  to  save  your  good 
temper.  There,  she  is  looking  back  again  —  not  at 
poor  me,  though.  What  a  lovely  girl  she  is  !  —  and 
a  real  lady  —  I'air  noble  —  the  rael  genuine  grit,  as 
Sam  Slick  says,  and  no  mistake.  By  Jove,  what  a 
face!  what  hands!  what  feet!  what  a  figure  —  in 
spite  of  crinolines  and  all  abominations !  And 
did  n't  she  know  it?  And  did  n't  she  know  that  you 
knew  it  too?"    And  he  ran  On  descanting  coarsely 


230    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

on  beauties  which  I  dared  not  even  have  profaned 
by  naming,  in  a  way  that  made  me,  I  knew  not 
why,  mad  with  jealousy  and  indignation.  She 
seemed  mine  alone  in  all  the  world.  What  right 
had  any  other  human  being,  above  all,  he,  to  dare 
to  mention  her?  I  turned  again  to  my  St.  Sebas- 
tian. That  movement  only  brought  on  me  a  fresh 
volley  of  banter. 

"  Oh,  that 's  the  dodge,  is  it,  to  catch  intellectual 
fine  ladies  ?  —  to  fall  into  an  ecstatic  attitude  before 
a  picture  —  But  then  we  must  have  Alton's  genius, 
you  know,  to  find  out  which  the  fine  pictures  are. 
I  must  read  up  that  subject,  by  the  by.  It  might 
be  a  paying  one  among  the  dons.  For  the  present, 
here  goes  in  for  an  attitude.  Will  this  do,  Alton  ?  " 
And  he  arranged  himself  admiringly  before  the 
picture  in  an  attitude  so  absurd  and  yet  so  grace- 
ful, that  I  did  not  know  whether  to  laugh  at  him 
or  hate  him. 

"  At  all  events,"  he  added  dryly,  "  it  will  be  as 
good  as  playing  the  Evangelical  at  Carus's  tea- 
parties,  or  taking  the  sacrament  regularly  for  fear 
one's  testimonials  should  be  refused."  And  then 
he  looked  at  me,  and  through  me,  in  his  intense, 
confident  way,  to  see  that  his  hasty  words  had  not 
injured  him  with  me.  He  used  to  meet  one's  eye 
as  boldly  as  any  man  I  ever  saw ;  but  it  was  not 
the  simple  gaze  of  honesty  and  innocence,  but  an 
imperious,  searching  look,  as  if  defying  scrutiny. 
His  was  a  true  mesmeric  eye,  if  ever  there  was 
one.     No  wonder  it  worked  the  miracles  it  did. 

"  Come  along,"  he  said,  suddenly  seizing  my 
arm.  "  Don't  you  see  they're  leaving?  Out  of  the 
gallery  after  them,  and  get  a  good  look  at  the 
carriage  and  the  arms  upon  it.    I  saw  one  standing 


The  Dulwich  Gallery  231 

there  as  we  came  in.  It  may  pay  us  —  you,  that  is 
—  to  know  it  again." 

We  went  out,  I  holding  him  back,  I  knew  not 
why,  and  arrived  at  the  outer  gate  just  in  time  to 
see  them  enter  the  carriage  and  drive  off.  I  gazed 
to  the  last,  but  did  not  stir. 

"  Good  boy,"  he  said,  "  knowing  still.  If  you 
had  bowed,  or  showed  the  least  sign  of  recognition, 
you  would  have  broken  the  spell." 

But  I  hardly  heard  what  he  said,  and  stood 
gazing  stupidly  after  the  carriage  as  it  disappeared. 
I  did  not  know  then  what  had  happened  to  me. 
I  know  now,  alas !  too  well. 


CHAPTER  VII 

FIRST  LOVE 

TRULY  I  said,  I  did  not  know  what  had  hap- 
pened to  me.  I  did  not  attempt  to  analyze 
the  intense,  overpowering  instinct  which  from  that 
moment  made  the  lovely  vision  I  had  seen  the 
lode-star  of  all  my  thoughts.  Even  now,  I  can 
see  nothing  in  those  feelings  of  mine  but  simple 
admiration  —  idolatry,  if  you  will  —  of  physical 
beauty.  Doubtless  there  was  more  —  doubtless 
—  I  had  seen  pretty  faces  before,  and  knew  that 
they  were  pretty,  but  they  had  passed  from  my 
retina,  like  the  prints  of  beauties  which  I  saw  in 
the  shop  windows,  without  exciting  a  thought  — 
even  a  conscious  emotion  of  complacency.  But 
this  face  did  not  pass  away.  Day  and  night  I  saw 
it,  just  as  I  had  seen  it  in  the  gallery.  The  same 
playful  smile  —  the  same  glance  alternately  turned 
to  me,  and  the  glowing  picture  above  her  head  — 
and  that  was  all  I  saw  or  felt.  No  child  ever 
nestled  upon  its  mother's  shoulder  with  feelings 
more  celestially  pure,  than  those  with  which  I 
counted  over  day  and  night  each  separate  linea- 
ment of  that  exceeding  loveliness.  Romantic? 
extravagant?  Yes;  if  the  world  be  right  in  calling 
a  passion  romantic  just  in  proportion  as  it  is  not 
merely  hopeless,  but  pure  and  unselfish,  drawing 


First  Love  233 

its  delicious  power  from  no  hope  or  faintest  desire 
of  enjoyment,  but  merely  from  simple  delight  in 
its  object  —  then  my  passion  was  most  romantic. 
I  never  thought  of  disparity  in  rank.  Why  should 
I?  That  could  not  blind  the  eyes  of  my  imagina- 
tion. She  was  beautiful,  and  that  was  all,  and  all 
in  all  to  me ;  and  had  our  stations  been  exchanged, 
and  more  than  exchanged ;  had  I  been  King  Co- 
phetua,  or  she  the  beggar-maid,  I  should  have 
gloried  in  her  just  as  much. 

Beloved  sleepless  hours,  which  I  spent  in  pictur- 
ing that  scene  to  myself,  with  all  the  brilliance  of 
fresh  recollection  !  Beloved  hours  !  how  soon  you 
pass  away  !  Soon  —  soon  my  imagination  began 
to  fade ;  the  traces  of  her  features  on  my  mind's 
eye  became  confused  and  dim;  and  then  came 
over  me  the  fierce  desire  to  see  her  again,  that  I 
might  renew  the  freshness  of  that  charming  image. 
Thereon  grew  up  an  agony  of  longing  —  an  agony 
of  weeks,  and  months,  and  years.  Where  could 
I  find  that  face  again?  was  my  ruling  thought 
from  morning  till  eve.  I  knew  that  it  was  hope- 
less to  look  for  her  at  the  gallery  where  I  had  first 
seen  her.  My  only  hope  was,  that  at  some  place 
of  public  resort  at  the  West  End  I  might  catch,  if 
but  for  a  moment,  an  inspiring  glance  of  that 
radiant  countenance.  I  lingered  round  the  Burton 
Arch  and  Hyde  Park  Gate  —  but  in  vain.  I 
peered  into  every  carriage,  every  bonnet  that 
passed  me  in  the  thoroughfares  —  in  vain.  I  stood 
patiently  at  the  doors  of  exhibitions  and  concerts, 
and  playhouses,  to  be  shoved  back  by  policemen, 
and  insulted  by  footmen  —  but  in  vain.  Then  T 
tried  the  fashionable  churches,  one  by  one ;  and 
sat  in  the  free  seats,  to  listen  to  prayers  and  ser- 

Vol.lll— 11 


234    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

mons,  not  a  word  of  which,  alas  !  I  cared  to  under- 
stand, with  my  eyes  searching  carefully  every  pew 
and  gallery,  face  by  face ;  always  fancying,  in  self- 
torturing  waywardness,  that  she  might  be  just  in 
the  part  of  the  gallery  which  I  could  not  see.  Oh ! 
miserable  days  of  hope  deferred,  making  the  heart 
sick !  Miserable  gnawing  of  disappointment  with 
which  I  returned  at  nightfall,  to  force  myself  down 
to  my  books  !  Equally  miserable  rack  of  hope  on 
which  my  nerves  were  stretched  every  morning 
when  I  rose,  counting  the  hours  till  my  day's 
work  should  be  over,  and  my  mad  search  begin 
again !  At  last  "  my  torment  did  by  length  of 
time  become  my  element."  I  returned  steadily  as 
ever  to  the  studies  which  I  had  at  first  neglected, 
much  to  Mackaye's  wonder  and  disgust;  and  a 
vain  hunt  after  that  face  became  a  part  of  my 
daily  task,  to  be  got  through  with  the  same  dull, 
sullen  effort  with  which  all  I  did  was  now  trans- 
acted. 

Mackaye,  I  suppose,  at  first,  attributed  my 
absences  and  idleness  to  my  having  got  into  bad 
company.  But  it  was  some  weeks  before  he 
gently  enough  told  me  his  suspicions,  and  they 
were  answered  by  a  burst  of  tears,  and  a  pas- 
sionate denial,  which  set  them  at  rest  forever. 
But  I  had  not  courage  to  tell  him  what  was  the 
matter  with  me.  A  sacred  modesty,  as  well  as 
a  sense  of  the  impossibility  of  explaining  my 
emotions,  held  me  back.  I  had  a  half-dread,  too, 
to  confess  the  whole  truth,  of  his  ridiculing  a  fancy, 
to  say  the  least,  so  utterly  impracticable ;  and  my 
only  confidant  was  a  picture  in  the  National  Gal- 
lery, in  one  of  the  faces  of  which  I  had  discovered 
some  likeness  to  my  Venus ;  and  there  I  used  to 


First  Love  235 

go  and  stand  at  spare  half  hours,  and  feel  the 
happier  for  staring  and  staring,  and  whispering 
to  the  dead  canvas  the  extravagances  of  my 
idolatry. 

But  soon  the  bitter  draught  of  disappointment 
began  to  breed  harsher  thoughts  in  me.  Those 
fine  gentlemen  who  rode  past  me  in  the  park,  who 
rolled  by  in  carriages,  sitting  face  to  face  with 
ladies,  as  richly  dressed,  if  not  as  beautiful,  as  she 
was  —  they  could  see  her  when  they  liked  —  why 
not  I  ?  What  right  had  their  eyes  to  a  feast  denied 
to  mine?  They,  too,  who  did  not  appreciate, 
adore  that  beauty  as  I  did  —  for  who  could  wor- 
ship her  like  me  ?  At  least  they  had  not  suffered 
for  her  as  I  had  done ;  they  had  not  stood  in  rain 
and  frost,  fatigue,  and  blank  despair  —  watching  — 
watching  —  month  after  month ;  and  I  was  making 
coats  for  them !  The  very  garment  I  was  stitch- 
ing at,  might,  in  a  day's  time,  be  in  her  presence  — 
touching  her  dress;  and  its  wearer  bowing,  and 
smiling,  and  whispering  —  he  had  not  bought  that 
bliss  by  watching  in  the  rain.  It  made  me  mad 
to  think  of  it. 

I  will  say  no  more  about  it.  That  is  a  period  of 
my  life  on  which  I  cannot  even  now  look  back 
without  a  shudder. 

At  last,  after  perhaps'  a  year  or  more,  I  sum- 
moned up  courage  to  tell  my  story  to  Sandy 
.  Mackaye,  and  burst  out  with  complaints  more  par- 
donable, perhaps,  than  reasonable. 

"  Why  have  I  not  as  good  a  right  to  speak  to 
her,  to  move  in  the  same  society  in  which  she 
moves,  as  any  of  the  fops  of  the  day?  Is  it  be- 
cause these  aristocrats  are  more  intellectual  than 
I?     I  should  not  fear  to  measure  brains  against 


236    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

most  of  them  now ;  and  give  me  the  opportunities 
which  they  have,  and  I  would  die  if  I  did  not  out- 
strip them.  Why  have  I  not  those  opportunities? 
Is  that  fault  of  others  to  be  visited  on  me?  Is  it 
because  they  are  more  refined  than  I  ?  What  right 
have  they,  if  this  said  refinement  be  so  necessary  a 
qualification,  a  difference  so  deep  —  that,  without 
it,  there  is  to  be  an  everlasting  gulf  between  man 
and  man  —  what  right  have  they  to  refuse  to  let  me 
share  in  it,  to  give  me  the  opportunity  of  acquiring 
it?" 

"  Wad  ye  ha'  them  set  up  a  dancing  academy  for 
workingmen,  wi'  *  manners  tocht  here  to  the  lower 
classes '  ?  They  '11  no  break  up  their  ain  monopoly ; 
trust  them  for  it !  Na :  if  ye  want  to  get  amang 
them,  I  '11  tell  ye  the  way  o'  't.  Write  a  book  o' 
poems,  and  ca'  it  *  A  Voice  fra'  the  Goose,  by  a 
working  Tailor  '  —  and  then  —  why,  after  a  dizen 
years  or  so  of  starving  and  scribbling  for  your 
bread,  ye  '11  ha'  a  chance  o'  finding  yoursel'  a  lion, 
and  a  flunkey,  and  a  licker  o'  trenchers  —  ane  that 
jokes  for  his  dinner,  and  sells  his  soul  for  a  fine 
leddy's  smile  —  till  ye  presume  to  think  they  're  in 
earnest,  and  fancy  yoursel*  a  man  o'  the  same  blude 
as  they,  and  fa*  in  love  wi'  one  o'  them  —  and  then 
they  '11  teach  you  your  level,  and  send  ye  off  to 
gauge  whusky  like  Burns)  or  leave  ye  to  die  in  a 
ditch  as  they  did  wi'  puir  Thom." 

"  Let  me  die,  anywhere  or  anyhow,  if  I  can  but  • 
be  near  her — see  her " 

"  Married  to  anither  body?  —  and  nursing  anither 
body's  bairns.  Ah  boy,  boy  —  do  ye  think  that 
was  what  ye  were  made  for ;  to  please  yersel'  wi'  a 
woman's  smiles,  or  e'en  a  woman's  kisses  —  or  to 
please  yersel'  at  all?    How  do  ye  expect  ever  to 


First  Love  237 

be  happy,  or  strong,  or  a  man  at  a*,  as  long  as  ye 
go  on  looking  to  enjoy  yersel'  —  yersel'  ?  I  ha* 
tried  it.  Mony  was  the  year  I  looked  for  naught 
but  my  ain  pleasure,  and  got  it  too,  when  it 
was  a' 

Sandy  Mackaye,  bonny  Sandy  Mackaye, 

There  he  sits  singing  the  lang  simmer's  day; 

Lassies  gae  to  him, 

And  kiss  him,  and  woo  him  — 

Na  bird  is  sa  merry  as  Sandy  Mackaye. 

An'  muckle  good  cam'  o*  't.  Ye  may  fancy  I  'm 
talking  like  a  sour,  disappointed  auld  carle.  But  I 
tell  ye  nay.  I've  got  that's  worth  living  for, 
though  I  am  downhearted  at  times,  and  fancy  a'  's 
wrong,  and  there 's  na  hope  for  us  on  earth,  we  be 
a'  sic  liars  —  a'  liars,  I  think :  '  a  universal  liars- 
rock  substrawtum,'  as  Mr.  Carlyle  says.  I  'm  a 
great  liar  often  mysel',  especially  when  I  'm  pray- 
ing. Do  ye  think  I  'd  live  on  here  in  this  meeser- 
able  crankit  auld  bane-barrel  o'  a  body,  if  it  was  not 
for  The  Cause,  and  for  the  puir  young  fellows  that 
come  in  to  me  whiles  to  get  some  book-learning 
about  the  gran'  auld  Roman  times,  when  folks 
didna  care  for  themselves,  but  for  the  nation,  and 
a  man  counted  wife  and  bairns  and  money  as  dross 
and  dung,  in  comparison  wi'  the  great  Roman  city, 
that  was  the  mither  o'  them  a',  and  wad  last  on, 
free  and  glorious,  after  they  and  their  bairns  were 
a'  dead  thegither?  Hoot,  man !  If  I  had  na  The 
Cause  to  care  for  and  to  work  for,  whether  I  ever 
see  it  triumphant  on  earth  or  no  —  I  'd  just  tak* 
the  cauld-water-cure  off  Waterloo-bridge,  and 
mak'  mysel  a  case  for  the  Humane  Society." 

"And  what  is  The  Cause?"  I  asked. 

"Wud   I   tell  ye?      We  want  no  ready-made 


238    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

freens  o'  The  Cause.  I  dinna  hauld  wi'  thae 
French  indoctrinating  pedants,  that  took  to  stick 
free  opinions  into  a  man  as  ye  'd  stick  pins  into  a 
pincushion,  to  fa'  out  again  the  first  shake.  Na  — 
The  Cause  must  find  a  man,  and  tak'  hauld  o'  him, 
willy-nilly,  and  grow  up  in  him  like  an  inspiration, 
till  he  can  see  nocht  but  in  the  light  o'  't.  Puir 
bairn !  "  he  went  on,  looking  with  a  half-sad,  half- 
comic  face  at  me  —  "puir  bairn  —  like  a  young 
bear,  wi'  a'  your  sorrows  before  ye!  This  time 
seven  years  ye  '11  ha'  no  need  to  come  speering  and 
questioning  what  The  Cause  is,  and  the  gran' 
cause,  and  the  only  cause  worth  working  for  on 
the  earth  o'  God.  And  noo  gang  your  gate,  and 
mak'  fine  feathers  for  foul  birds.  I  'm  gaun  whar 
ye '11  be  ganging  too,  before  lang." 

As  I  went  sadly  out  of  the  shop,  he  called  me 
back. 

"  Stay  a  wee,  bairn  ;  there 's  the  Roman  History 
for  ye.  There  ye  '11  read  what  The  Cause  is,  and 
how  they  that  seek  their  ain  are  no  worthy 
thereof" 

I  took  the  book,  and  found  in  the  legends  of 
Brutus,  and  Codes,  and  Scaevola,  and  the  retreat 
to  the  Mons  Sacer,  and  the  Gladiator's  war,  what 
The  Cause  was,  and  forgot  awhile  in  those  tales  of 
antique  heroism  and  patriotic  self-sacrifice  my  own 
selfish  longings  and  sorrows. 

But,  after  all,  the  very  advice  which  was  meant  to 
cure  me  of  those  selfish  longings,  only  tended,  by 
diverting  me  from  my  living  outward  idol,  to  turn  my 
thoughts  more  than  ever  inward,  and  tempt  them  to 
feed  on  their  own  substance.  I  passed  whole  days 
on  the  workroom  floor  in  brooding  silence  —  my 


First  Love  239 

mind  peopled  with  an  incoherent  rabble  of  phan- 
tasms patched  up  from  every  object  of  which  I  had 
ever  read.  I  could  not  control  my  day-dreams ; 
they  swept  me  away  with  them  over  sea  and  land, 
and  into  the  bowels  of  the  earth.  My  soul  escaped 
on  every  side  from  my  civilized  dungeon  of  brick 
and  mortar,  into  the  great  free  world  from  which  my 
body  was  debarred.  Now  I  was  the  corsair  in  the 
pride  of  freedom  on  the  dark  blue  sea.  Now  I 
wandered  in  fairy  caverns  among  the  bones  of 
primaeval  monsters.  I  fought  at  the  side  of  Leon- 
idas,  and  the  Maccabee  who  stabbed  the  Sultan's 
elephant,  and  saw  him  crushed  beneath  its  falling 
bulk.  Now  I  was  a  hunter  in  tropic  forests  —  I 
heard  the  parrots  scream,  and  saw  the  humming- 
birds flit  on  from  gorgeous  flower  to  flower. 
Gradually  I  took  a  voluntary  pleasure  in  calling  up 
these  images,  and  working  out  their  details  into 
words  with  all  the  accuracy  and  care  for  which  my 
small  knowledge  gave  me  materials.  And  as  the 
self-indulgent  habit  grew  on  me,  I  began  to  live 
two  lives — one  mechanical  and  outward,  one  in- 
ward and  imaginative.  The  thread  passed  through 
my  fingers  without  my  knowing  it ;  I  did  my  work 
as  a  machine  might  do  it.  The  dingy  stifling 
room,  the  wan  faces  of  my  companions,  the  scanty 
meals  which  I  snatched,  I  saw  dimly,  as  in  a  dream. 
The  tropics,  and  Greece,  the  imaginary  battles 
which  I  fought,  the  phantoms  into  whose  mouths  I 
put  my  thoughts,  were  real  and  true  to  me.  They 
met  me  when  I  woke  —  they  floated  along  beside 
me  as  I  walked  to  work —  they  acted  their  fantas- 
tic dramas  before  me  through  the  sleepless  hours 
of  night.  Gradually  certain  faces  among  them 
became    fauniliar  —  certain    personages   grew  into 


240    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

coherence,  as  embodiments  of  those  few  types  of 
character  which  had  struck  me  the  most,  and 
played  an  analogous  part  in  every  fresh  fantclsia. 
Sandy  Mackaye's  face  figured  incongruously  enough 
as  Leonidas,  Brutus,  a  Pilgrim  Father ;  and  gradu- 
ally, in  spite  of  myself,  and  the  fear  with  which  I 
looked  on  the  recurrence  of  that  dream,  Lillian's 
figure  re-entered  my  fairyland.  I  saved  her  from  a 
hundred  dangers ;  I  followed  her  through  dragon- 
guarded  caverns  and  the  corridors  of  magic  cas- 
tles ;  I  walked  by  her  side  through  the  forests  of 
the  Amazon.  .  .  . 

And  now  I  began  to  crave  for  some  means  of 
expressing  these  fancies  to  myself.  While  they 
were  mere  thoughts,  parts  of  me,  they  were  unsat- 
isfactory, however  delicious.  I  longed  to  put 
them  outside  me,  that  I  might  look  at  them  and 
talk  to  them  as  permanent  independent  things. 
First  I  tried  to  sketch  them  on  the  whitewashed 
walls  of  my  garret,  on  scraps  of  paper  begged  from 
Mackaye,  or  picked  up  in  the  workroom.  But 
from  my  ignorance  of  any  rules  of  drawing,  they 
were  utterly  devoid  of  beauty,  and  only  excited 
my  disgust.  Besides,  I  had  thoughts  as  well  as 
objects  to  express  —  thoughts  strange,  sad,  wild, 
about  my  own  feelings,  my  own  destiny,  and  draw- 
ing could  not  speak  them  for  me. 

Then  I  turned  instinctively  to  poetry :  with  its 
rules  I  was  getting  rapidly  conversant.  The  mere 
desire  of  imitation  urged  me  on,  and  when  I  tried, 
the  grace  of  rhyme  and  metre  covered  a  thousand 
defects.  I  tell  my  story,  not  as  I  saw  it  then,  but 
as  I  see  it  now.  A  long  and  lonely  voyage,  with 
its  monotonous  days  and  sleepless  nights  —  its 
sickness  and  heart-loneliness,  has  given  me  oppor- 


First  Love  241 

tunities  for  analyzing  my  past  history  which  were 
impossible  then  amid  the  ceaseless  in-rush  of  new 
images,  the  ceaseless  ferment  of  their  re-combina- 
tion, in  which  my  life  was  passed  from  sixteen  to 
twenty-five.  The  poet,  I  suppose,  must  be  a  seer 
as  long  as  he  is  a  worker,  and  a  seer  only.  He 
has  no  time  to  philosophize — to  "think  about 
thinking,"  as  Goethe,  I  have  somewhere  read,  says 
that  he  never  could  do.  It  is  too  often  only  in 
sickness  and  prostration  and  sheer  despair,  that  the 
fierce  veracity  and  swift  digestion  of  his  soul  can 
cease,  and  give  him  time  to  know  himself  and 
God's  dealings  with  him ;  and  for  that  reason  it  is 
good  for  him,  too,  to  have  been  afflicted. 

I  do  not  write  all  this  to  boast  of  it ;  I  am  ready 
to  bear  sneers  at  my  romance  —  my  day-dreams 
—  my  unpractical  habits  of  mind,  for  I  know  that 
I  deserve  them.  But  such  was  the  appointed 
growth  of  my  uneducated  mind;  no  more  un- 
healthy a  growth,  if  I  am  to  believe  books,  than 
that  of  many  a  carefully  trained  one.  High-born 
geniuses,  they  tell  me,  have  their  idle  visions  as 
well  as  we  workingmen ;  and  Oxford  has  seen  of 
late  years  as  wild  Icarias  conceived  as  ever  were 
fathered  by  a  red  Republic.  For,  indeed,  we  have 
the  same  flesh  and  blood,  the  same  God  to  teach 
us,  the  same  devil  to  mislead  us,  whether  wc 
choose  to  believe  it  or  not.  But  there  were  ex- 
cuses for  me.  We  Londoners  are  not  accustomed 
from  our  youth  to  the  poems  of  a  great  democratic 
genius,  as  the  Scotchmen  are  to  their  glorious 
Burns.  We  have  no  chance  of  such  an  early 
acquaintance  with  poetic  art  as  that  which  enabled 
John  Bethune,  one  of  the  great  unrepresented  — 
the  starving  Scotch  day-laborer,  breaking  stones 


242    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

upon   the   parish  roads,  to  write   at   the   age  of 
seventeen  such  words  as  these  — 

Hail,  hallow'd  evening !  sacred  hour  to  me  ! 
Thy  clouds  of  gray,  thy  vocal  melody, 
Thy  dreamy  silence  oft  to  me  have  brought 
A  sweet  exchange  from  toil  to  peaceful  thought. 
Ye  purple  heavens  !  how  often  has  my  eye, 
Wearied  with  its  long  gaze  on  drudgery, 
Look'd  up  and  found  refreshment  in  the  hues 
That  gild  thy  vest  with  coloring  profuse  ! 

O,  evening  gray !  how  oft  have  I  admired 
Thy  airy  tapestry,  whose  radiance  fired 
The  glowing  minstrels  of  the  olden  time, 
Until  their  very  souls  flow'd  forth  in  rhyme. 
And  I  have  listened,  till  my  spirit  grew 
Familiar  with  their  deathless  strains,  and  drew 
From  the  same  source  some  portion  of  the  glow 
Which  fiU'd  their  spirits,  when  from  earth  below 
They  scann'd  thy  golden  imagery.     And  I 
Have  consecrated  thee,  bright  evening  sky, 
My  fount  of  inspiration ;  and  I  fling 
My  spirit  on  thy  clouds  —  an  offering 
To  the  great  Deity  of  dying  day. 
Who  hath  transfused  o'er  thee  his  purple  ray. 

After  all,  our  dreams  do  little  harm  to  the  rich. 
Those  who  consider  Chartism  as  synonymous  with 
devil-worship,  should  bless  and  encourage  them, 
for  the  very  reason  for  which  we  workingmen 
ought  to  dread  them ;  for,  quickened  into  prurient 
activity  by  the  low,  novel-mongering  press,  they 
help  to  enervate  and  besot  all  but  the  noblest 
minds  among  us.  Here  and  there  a  Thomas 
Cooper,  sitting  in  Stafford  gaol,  after  a  youth  spent 
in  cobbling  shoes,  vents  his  treasures  of  classic  and 
historic  learning  in  a  "  Purgatory  of  Suicides ;"  or  a 
Prince  becomes  the  poet  of  the  poor,  no  less  for 
having  fed  his  boyish  fancy  with   "The  Arabian 


First  Love  243 

Nights  "  and  the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress."  But,  with 
the  most  of  us,  sedentary  and  monotonous  occupa- 
tions, as  has  long  been  known,  create  of  themselves 
a  morbidly  meditative  and  fantastic  turn  of  mind. 
And  what  else,  in  Heaven's  name,  ye  fine  gentle- 
men—  what  else  can  a  workingman  do  with  his 
imagination,  but  dream?  What  else  will  you  let 
him  do  with  it,  oh  ye  education-pedants,  who  fancy 
that  you  can  teach  the  masses  as  you  would  drill 
soldiers,  every  soul  alike,  though  you  will  not  be- 
stir yourselves  to  do  even  that?  Are  there  no 
differences  of  rank  —  God's  rank,  not  man's  — 
among  us?  You  have  discovered,  since  your 
schoolboy  days,  the  fallacy  of  the  old  nomencla- 
ture which  civilly  classed  us  altogether  as  "  the 
snobs,"  "  the  blackguards  " ;  which  even  —  so 
strong  is  habit  —  tempted  Burke  himself  to  talk  of 
us  as  "  the  swinish  multitude."  You  are  finding 
yourselves  wrong  there.  A  few  more  years'  expe- 
rience, not  in  miseducating  the  poor,  but  in  watch- 
ing the  poor  really  educate  themselves,  may  teach 
you  that  we  are  not  all  by  nature  dolts  and  idiots ; 
that  there  are  differences  of  brain  among  us,  just 
as  great  as  there  is  between  you ;  and  that  there 
are  those  among  us  whose  education  ought  not  to 
end,  and  will  not  end,  with  the  putting  off  of  the 
parish  cap  and  breeches;  whom  it  is  cruelty,  as 
well  as  folly,  to  toss  back  into  the  hell  of  mere 
manual  drudgery,  as  soon  as  you  have  —  if,  indeed, 
you  have  been  even  so  bountiful  as  that — excited 
in  them  a  new  thirst  of  the  intellect  and  imagina- 
tion. If  you  provide  that  craving  with  no  whole- 
some food,  you  at  least  have  no  right  to  blame  it  if 
it  shall  gorge  itself  with  poison. 

Dare   for   once  to  do  a  strange   thing,  and   let 


244    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

yourself  be  laughed  at ;  go  to  a  workman's  meet- 
ing—  a  Chartist  meeting,  if  you  will;  and  look 
honestly  at  the  faces  and  brows  of  those  so-called 
incendiaries,  whom  your  venal  caricaturists  have 
taught  you  to  believe  a  mixture  of  cur-dog  and 
baboon  —  we,  for  our  part,  shall  not  be  ashamed  to 
show  foreheads  against  your  laughing  House  of 
Commons  —  and  then  say,  what  employment  can 
those  men  find  in  the  soulless  routine  of  mechani- 
cal labor  for  the  mass  of  brain  which  they  almost 
universally  possess?  They  must  either  dream  or 
agitate ;  perhaps  they  are  now  learning  how  to  do 
both  to  some  purpose. 

But  I  have  found,  by  sad  experience,  that  there 
is  little  use  in  declamation.  I  had  much  better 
simply  tell  my  story,  and  leave  my  readers  to 
judge  of  the  facts,  if,  indeed,  they  will  be  so  far 
courteous  as  to  believe  them. 


CHAFl'ER  VIII 

LIGHT    IN    A    DARK    PLACE 

SO  I  made  my  first  attempt  at  poetry  —  need  I 
say  that  my  subject  was  the  beautiful  Lillian? 
And  need  I  say,  too,  that  I  was  as  utterly  disgusted 
at  my  attempt  to  express  her  in  words,  as  I  had 
been  at  my  trial  with  the  pencil  ?  It  chanced  also, 
that  after  hammering  out  half  a  dozen  verses,  I  met 
with  Mr.  Tennyson's  poems;  and  the  unequalled 
sketches  of  women  that  I  found  there,  while  they 
had,  with  the  rest  of  the  book,  a  new  and  abiding 
influence  on  my  mind,  were  quite  enough  to  show 
me  my  own  fatal  incompetency  in  that  line.  I 
threw  my  verses  away,  never  to  resume  them. 
Perhaps  I  proved  thereby  the  depth  of  my  affec- 
tion. Our  mightiest  feelings  are  always  those 
which  remain  most  unspoken.  The  most  intense 
lovers  and  the  greatest  poets  have  generally,  I 
think,  written  very  little  personal  love-poetry,  while 
they  have  shown  in  fictitious  characters  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  passion  too  painfully  intimate  to  be 
spoken  of  in  the  first  person. 

But  to  escape  from  my  own  thoughts,  I  could 
not  help  writing  something;  and  to  escape  from 
my  own  private  sorrows,  writing  on  some  matter 
with  which  I  had  no  personal  concern.  And  so, 
after  much  casting   about   for   subjects,  "  Childe 


246    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

Harold  "  and  the  old  missionary  records  contrived 
to  celebrate  a  spiritual  wedding  in  my  brain,  of 
which  anomalous  marriage  came  a  proportionately 
anomalous  offspring. 

My  hero  was  not  to  be  a  pirate,  but  a  pious 
sea-rover,  who,  with  a  crew  of  saints,  or  at  least 
uncommonly  fine  fellows,  who  could  be  very  manly 
and  jolly,  and  yet  all  be  good  Christians,  of  a 
somewhat  vague  and  latitudinarian  cast  of  doctrine 
(for  my  own  was  becoming  rapidly  so),  set  forth 
under  the  red-cross  flag  to  colonize  and  convert 
one  of  my  old  paradises,  a  South  Sea  Island. 

I  forget  most  of  the  lines  —  they  were  probably 
great  trash,  but  I  hugged  them  to  my  bosom  as  a 
young  mother  does  her  first  child. 

'T  was  sunset  in  the  lone  Pacific  world. 
The  rich  gleams  fading  in  the  western  sky ; 
Within  the  still  lagoon  the  sails  were  furled. 
The  red-cross  flag  alone  was  flaunting  high. 

Before  them  was  the  low  and  palm-fringed  shore, 

Behind,  the  outer  ocean's  baffled  roar. 

After  which  valiant  plunge  in  medias  res,  came  a 
great  lump  of  deception,  after  the  manner  of 
youths  —  of  the  island,  and  the  white  houses,  and 
the  banana  groves,  and  above  all,  the  single  vol- 
cano towering  over  the  whole,  which 

Shaking  a  sinful  isle  with  thundering  shocks, 
Reproved  the  worshippers  of  stones  and  stocks. 

Then  how  a  line  of  foam  appears  on  the  lagoon, 
which  is  supposed  at  first  to  be  a  shoal  of  fish,  but 
turns  out  to  be  a  troop  of  naked  island  beauties, 
swimming  out  to  the  ship.  The  decent  missiona- 
ries were  certainly  guiltless  of  putting  that  into  my 


Light  in  a  Dark  Place  247 

head,  whether  they  ever  saw  it  or  not  —  a  great 
many  things  happening  in  the  South  Seas  of  which 
they  find  it  convenient  to  say  nothing.  I  think  I 
picked  it  up  from  Wallis,  or  Cook,  or  some  other 
plain-spoken  voyager. 

The  crew  gaze  in  pardonable  admiration,  but  the 
hero,  in  a  long  speech,  reproves  them  for  their 
lightmindedness,  reminds  them  of  their  sacred  mis- 
sion, and  informs  them  that  — 

The  soldiers  of  the  cross  should  turn  their  eyes 
From  carnal  lusts  and  heathen  vanities ; 

beyond  which  indisputable  assertion  I  never  got; 
for  this  being  about  the  fiftieth  stanza,  I  stopped 
to  take  breath  a  little ;  and  reading  and  re-reading, 
patching  and  touching  continually,  grew  so  accus- 
tomed to  my  bantling's  face,  that,  like  a  mother,  I 
could  not  tell  whether  it  was  handsome  or  hideous, 
sense  or  nonsense.  I  have  since  found  out  that  the 
true  plan,  for  myself  at  least,  is  to  write  off  as  much 
as  possible  at  a  time,  and  then  lay  it  by  and  forget  it 
for  weeks  —  if  I  can,  for  months.  After  that,  on  re- 
turning to  it,  the  mind  regards  it  as  something  alto- 
gether strange  and  new,  and  can,  or  rather  ought  to, 
judge  of  it  as  it  would  of  the  work  of  another  pen. 

But  really,  between  conceit  and  disgust,  fancying 
myself  one  day  a  great  new  poet,  and  the  next  a 
mere  twaddler,  I  got  so  puzzled  and  anxious,  that  I 
determined  to  pluck  up  courage,  go  to  Mackaye, 
and  ask  him  to  solve  the  problem  for  me. 

"  Hech,  sirs,  poetry !  I  've  been  expecting  it.  I 
suppose  it 's  the  appointed  gate  o'  a  workman's  in- 
tellectual life  —  that  same  lust  o'  versification. 
Aweel,  aweel, — let's  hear." 

Blushing  and  trembling,  I  read  my  verses  aloud 


248     Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

in  as  resonant  and  magniloquent  a  voice  as  I  could 
command.  I  thought  Mackaye's  upper  lip  would 
never  stop  lengthening,  or  his  lower  lip  protruding. 
He  chuckled  intensely  at  the  unfortunate  rhyme 
between  "  shocks  "  and  "  stocks."  Indeed,  it  kept 
him  in  chuckling  matter  for  a  whole  month  after- 
wards ;  but  when  I  had  got  to  the  shoal  of  naked 
girls,  he  could  bear  no  more,  and  burst  out  — 

"  What  the  deevil !  is  there  no  harlotry  and  idol- 
atry here  in  England,  that  ye  maun  gang  speering 
after  it  in  the  Cannibal  Islands?  Are  ye  gaun  to 
be  like  they  puir  aristocrat  bodies,  that  wad  suner 
hear  an  Italian  dog  howl  than  an  English  nightin- 
gale sing,  and  winna  harken  to  Mr.  John  Thomas 
till  he  calls  himself  Giovanni  Thomasino ;  or  do  ye 
tak  yoursel'  for  a  singing-bird,  to  go  all  your  days 
tweedle-dum-deeing  out  into  the  lift,  just  for  the 
lust  o'  hearing  your  ain  clan  clatter?  Will  ye  be  a 
man  or  a  lintie  ?  Coral  Islands  ?  Pacific  ?  What 
do  ye  ken  aboot  Pacifies  ?  Are  ye  a  cockney  or  a 
Cannibal  Islander?  Dinna  stand  there,  ye  gowk, 
as  fusionless  as  a  docken,  but  tell  me  that  I  Whaur 
do  ye  live?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Mr.  Mackaye  ?  "  asked  I, 
with  a  doleful  and  disappointed  visage. 

"  Mean  —  why,  if  God  had  meant  ye  to  write 
aboot  Pacifies,  He  'd  ha'  put  ye  there  —  and  be- 
cause He  means  ye  to  write  aboot  London  town, 
He's  put  ye  there  —  and  gien  ye  an  unco  sharp 
taste  o'  the  ways  o't;  and  I'll  gie  ye  anither. 
Come  along  wi'  me." 

And  he  seized  me  by  the  arm,  and  hardly  giving 
me  time  to  put  on  my  hat,  marched  me  out  into 
the  streets,  and  away  through  Clare  Market  to 
St  Giles's. 


Light  in  a  Dark  Place  249 

It  was  a  foul,  chilly,  foggy  Saturday  night. 
From  the  butchers'  and  greengrocers*  shops  the 
gas-lights  flared  and  flickered,  wild  and  ghastly, 
over  haggard  groups  of  slipshod  dirty  women, 
bargaining  for  scraps  of  stale  meat  and  frost-bitten 
vegetables,  wrangling  about  short  weight  and  bad 
quality.  Fish-stalls  and  fruit-stalls  lined  the  edge 
of  the  greasy  pavement,  sending  up  odors  as  foul 
as  the  language  of  sellers  and  buyers.  Blood  and 
sewer  water  crawled  from  under  doors  and  out  of 
spouts,  and  reeked  down  the  gutters  among  offal, 
animal  and  vegetable,  in  every  stage  of  putre- 
faction. Foul  vapors  rose  from  cow-sheds  and 
slaughter-houses,  and  the  doorways  of  undrained 
alleys,  where  the  inhabitants  carried  the  filth  out 
on  their  shoes  from  the  back-yard  into  the  court, 
and  from  the  court  up  into  the  main  street ;  while 
above,  hanging  like  cliffs  over  the  streets  —  those 
narrow,  brawling  torrents  of  filth,  and  poverty,  and 
sin,  —  the  houses  with  their  teeming  load  of  life 
were  piled  up  into  the  dingy,  choking  night.  A 
ghastly,  deafening,  sickening  sight  it  was.  Go, 
scented  Belgravian  !  and  see  what  London  is !  and 
then  go  to  the  library  which  God  has  given  thee  — 
one  often  fears  in  vain  —  and  see  what  science  says 
this  London  might  be  ! 

"  Ay,"  he  muttered  to  himself,  as  he  strode 
along,  "sing  awa;  get  yoursel'  wi'  child  wi'  pretty 
fancies  and  gran'  words,  like  the  rest  o'  the  poets, 
and  gang  to  hell  for  it." 

"To  hell,  Mr.  Mackaye?" 

"  Ay,  to  a  verra  real  hell,  Alton  Locke,  laddie  — 
a  warse  ane  than  ony  fiends'  kitchen,  or  subterra- 
nean Smithfield  that  ye  '11  hear  o'  in  the  pulpits  — 
the  hell  on  earth  o*  being  a  flunkey,  and  a  hum- 


250    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

bug,  and  a  useless  peacock,  wasting  God's  gifts  on 
your  ain  lusts  and  pleasures  —  and  kenning  it — • 
and  not  being  able  to  get  oot  o*  it,  for  the  chains 
o'  vanity  and  self-indulgence.  I  've  warned  ye. 
Now  look  there " 

He  stopped  suddenly  before  the  entrance  of 
a  miserable  .alley  — 

"  Look !  there 's  not  a  soul  down  that  yard 
but 's  either  beggar,  drunkard,  thief,  or  warse. 
Write  anent  that !  Say  how  you  saw  the  mouth 
o'  hell,  and  the  twa  pillars  thereof  at  the  entry  — 
the  pawnbroker's  shop  o'  one  side,  and  the  gin 
palace  at  the  other  —  twa  monstrous  deevils,  eat- 
ing up  men,  and  women,  and  bairns,  body  and 
soul.  Look  at  the  jaws  o'  the  monsters,  how  they 
open  and  open,  and  swallow  in  anither  victim  and 
anither.     Write  anent  that." 

•*  What  jaws,  Mr.  Mackaye?  " 

"  They  faulding-doors  o'  the  gin  shop,  goose. 
Are  na  they  a  mair  damnable  man-devouring  idol 
than  ony  red-hot  statue  o'  Moloch,  or  wicker 
Gogmagog,  wherein  thae  auld  Britons  burnt  their 
prisoners?  Look  at  thae  bare-footed  bare-backed 
hizzies,  with  their  arms  roun'  the  men's  necks,  and 
their  mouths  full  o'  vitriol  and  beastly  words ! 
Look  at  that  Irishwoman  pouring  the  gin  down 
the  babbie's  throat!  Look  at  that  rough  o'  a 
boy  gaun  out  o'  the  pawnshop,  where  he  's  been 
pledging  the  handkerchief  he  stole  the  morning, 
into  the  gin-shop,  to  buy  beer  poisoned  wi'  grains 
o'  paradise,  and  cocculus  indicus,  and  saut,  and  a' 
damnable,  maddening,  thirst-breeding,  lust-breed- 
ing drugs !  Look  at  that  girl  that  went  in  wi' 
a  shawl  on  her  back  and  cam'  out  wi'out  ane! 
Drunkards    frae    the    breast !  —  harlots   frae   the 


Light  in  a  Dark  Place  251 

cradle !  damned  before  they  're  born !  John 
Calvin  had  an  inkling  o'  the  truth  there,  I'm 
a'most  driven  to  think,  wi'  his  reprobation  deevil's 
doctrines !  " 

"  Well  —  but  —  Mr.  Mackaye,  I  know  nothing 
about  these  poor  creatures." 

"  Then  ye  ought.  What  do  ye  ken  anent  the 
Pacific  ?  Which  is  maist  to  your  business  ?  —  thae 
bare-backed  hizzies  that  play  the  harlot  o'  the 
other  side  o'  the  warld,  or  these  —  these  thou- 
sands o'  bare-backed  hizzies  that  play  the  harlot 
o'  your  ain  side  —  made  out  o*  your  ain  flesh  and 
blude?  You  a  poet!  True  poetry,  like  true 
charity,  my  laddie,  begins  at  hame.  If  ye  '11  be  a 
poet  at  a',  ye  maun  be  a  cockney  poet ;  and  while 
the  cockneys  be  what  they  be,  ye  maun  write,  like 
Jeremiah  of  old,  o'  lamentation  and  mourning  and 
woe,  for  the  sins  o'  your  people.  Gin  you  want 
to  learn  the  spirit  o'  a  people's  poet,  down  wi* 
your  Bible  and  read  thae  auld  Hebrew  prophets; 
gin  ye  wad  learn  the  style,  read  your  Burns  frae 
morning  till  night ;  and  gin  ye  'd  learn  the  matter, 
just  gang  after  your  nose,  and  keep  your  eyes 
open,  and  ye  '11  no  miss  it." 

"  But  all  this  is  so  —  so  unpoetical." 

"  Hech !  Is  there  no  the  heeven  above  them 
there,  and  the  hell  beneath  them?  and  God  frown- 
ing, and  the  deevil  grinning?  No  poetry  there  I 
Is  no  the  verra  idea  of  the  classic  tragedy  defined 
to  be,  man  conquered  by  circumstance?  Canna 
ye  see  it  there?  And  the  verra  idea  of  the  mod- 
ern tragedy,  man  conquering  circumstance?  —  and 
I  '11  show  you  that,  too  —  in  mony  a  garret  where 
no  eye  but  the  gude  God's  enters,  to  see  the  pa- 
tience, and  the  fortitude,  and  the  self-sacrifice,  and 


252    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

the  luve  stronger  than  death,  that 's  shining  in  thae 
dark  places  o'  the  earth.     Come  wi'  me,  and  see." 
We  went  on  through  a  back  street  or  two,  and 
then  into  a  huge,  miserable  house,  which,  a  hun- 
dred years  ago,  perhaps,  had  witnessed  the  luxury, 
and  rung  to  the  laughter  of  some  one  great  fash- 
ionable family,  alone  there  in  their  glory.     Now 
every  room  of  it  held  its  family,  or  its  group  of 
families  —  a  phalanstery  of  all   the  fiends ;  — -  its 
grand  staircase,  with  the  carved  balustrades  rot- 
ting  and   crumbling  away  piecemeal,   converted 
into  a  common  sewer  for  all  its  inmates.      Up 
stair  after  stair  we  went,  while  wails  of  children, 
and  curses  of  men,  steamed  out  upon  the   hot 
stifling  rush  of  air  from  every  doorway,  till,  at  the 
topmost  story,  we  knocked  at  a  garret  door.     We 
entered.      Bare   it  was   of  furniture,  comfortless, 
and  freezing  cold ;  but,  with  the  exception  of  the 
plaster  dropping  from  the  roof,  and  the  broken 
windows,  patched  with  rags  and  paper,  there  was 
a  scrupulous  neatness  about  the  whole,  which  con- 
trasted strangely  with  the  filth  and  slovenliness 
outside.      There  was  no   bed  in  the  room  —  no 
table.     On  a  broken  chair  by  the  chimney  sat  a 
miserable  old  woman,  fancying  that  she  was  warm- 
ing her  hands  over  embers  which  had  long  been 
cold,  shaking  her  head,  and  muttering  to  herself, 
with   palsied   lips,  about  the  guardians  and   the 
workhouse;  while  upon  a  few  rags  on  the  floor 
lay  a  girl,  ugly,  small-pox  marked,  hollow-eyed, 
emaciated,   her   only  bedclothes    the   skirt   of   a 
large  handsome   new  riding-habit,  at  which   two 
other  girls,  wan  and  tawdry,  were  stitching  busily, 
as  they  sat  right  and  left  of  her  on  the  floor.     The 
old  woman  took  no  notice  of  us  as  we  entered ; 


Light  in  a  Dark  Place  253 

but  one  of  the  girls  looked  up,  and,  with  a  pleased 
gesture  of  recognition,  put  her  finger  up  to  her 
lips,  and  whispered,  "  Ellen  's  asleep." 

"  I  'm  not  asleep,  dears,"  answered  a  faint  un- 
earthly voice ;  "  I  was  only  praying.  Is  that  Mr. 
Mackaye  ?  " 

"  Ay,  my  lassies ;  but  ha'  ye  gotten  na  fire  the 
nicht?" 

"  No,"  said  one  of  them,  bitterly,  "  we  Ve  earned 
no  fire  to-night,  by  fair  trade  or  foul  either." 

The  sick  girl  tried  to  raise  herself  up  and  speak, 
but  was  stopped  by  a  frightful  fit  of  coughing  and 
expectoration,  as  painful,  apparently,  to  the  sufferer 
as  it  was,  I  confess,  disgusting  even  to  me. 

I  saw  Mackaye  slip  something  into  the  hand  of 
one  of  the  girls,  and  whisper,  "  A  half-hundred  of 
coals ;  "  to  which  she  replied,  with  an  eager  look 
of  gratitude  that  I  never  can  forget,  and  hurried 
out.  Then  the  sufferer,  as  if  taking  advantage  of 
her  absence,  began  to  speak  quickly  and  eagerly. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Mackaye  —  dear,  kind  Mr.  Mackaye 
•—  do  speak  to  her ;  and  do  speak  to  poor  Lizzy 
here  !  I  'm  not  afraid  to  say  it  before  her,  because 
she 's  more  gentle  like,  and  has  n't  learnt  to  say 
bad  words  yet  —  but  do  speak  to  them,  and  tell 
them  not  to  go  the  bad  way,  like  all  the  rest.  Tell 
them  it  '11  never  prosper.  I  know  it  is  want  that 
drives  them  to  it,  as  it  drives  all  of  us  —  but  tell 
them  it 's  best  to  starve  and  die  honest  girls,  than 
to  go  about  with  the  shame  and  the  curse  of  God 
on  their  hearts,  for  the  sake  of  keeping  this  poor, 
miserable,  vile  body  together  a  few  short  years 
more  in  this  world  o'  sorrow.  Do  tell  them,  Mr. 
Mackaye." 

"  I  'm  thinking,"  said  he,  with  the  tears  running 


254    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

down  his  old  withered  face,  "  ye  '11  mak  a  better 
preacher  at  that  text  than  I  shall,  Ellen." 

"Oh,  no,  no;  who  am  I,  to  speak  to  them?  — 
it 's  no  merit  o'  mine,  Mr.  Mackaye,  that  the  Lord 's 
kept  me  pure  through  it  all.  I  should  have  been 
just  as  bad  as  any  of  them,  if  the  Lord  had  not 
kept  me  out  of  temptation  in  His  great  mercy,  by 
making  me  the  poor,  ill-favored  creature  I  am. 
From  that  time  I  was  burnt  when  I  was  a  child, 
and  had  the  small-pox  afterwards,  oh !  how  sinful 
I  was,  and  repined  and  rebelled  against  the  Lord ! 
And  now  I  see  it  was  all  His  blessed  mercy  to 
keep  me  out  of  evil,  pure  and  unspotted  for  my 
dear  Jesus,  when  He  comes  to  take  me  to  Himself. 
I  saw  Him  last  night,  Mr.  Mackaye,  as  plain  as  I 
see  you  now,  all  in  a  flame  of  beautiful  white  fire, 
smiling  at  me  so  sweetly ;  and  He  showed  me  the 
wounds  in  His  hands  and  His  feet,  and  He  said, 
'Ellen,  my  own  child,  those  that  suffer  with  me 
here,  they  shall  be  glorified  with  me  hereafter,  for 
I  'm  coming  very  soon  to  take  you  home.' " 

Sandy  shook  his  head  at  all  this  with  a  strange 
expression  of  face,  as  if  he  sympathized  and  yet 
disagreed,  respected  and  yet  smiled  at  the  shape 
which  her  religious  ideas  had  assumed;  and  I 
remarked  in  the  meantime  that  the  poor  girl's 
neck  and  arm  were  all  scarred  and  distorted, 
apparently  from  the  effects  of  a  burn. 

"  Ah,"  said  Sandy,  at  length,  **  I  tauld  ye  ye  were 
the  better  preacher  of  the  two ;  ye  've  mair  com- 
fort to  gie  Sandy  than  he  has  to  gie  the  like  o'  ye. 
But  how  is  the  wound  in  your  back  the  day?  " 

Oh,  it  was  wonderfully  better !  the  doctor  had 
come  and  given  her  such  blessed  ease  with  a  great 
thick  leather  he  had  put  under  it,  and  then  she  did 


Light  in  a  Dark  Place  255 

not  feel  the  boards  through  so  much.  "  But  oh, 
Mr.  Mackaye,  I  'm  so  afraid  it  will  make  me  live 
longer  to  keep  me  away  from  my  dear  Saviour. 
And  there  's  one  thing,  too,  that 's  breaking  my 
heart,  and  makes  me  long  to  die  this  very  minute, 
even  if  I  did  n't  go  to  heaven  at  all,  Mr.  Mackaye." 
(And  she  burst  out  crying,  and  between  her  sobs 
it  came  out,  as  well  as  I  could  gather,  that  her 
notion  was,  that  her  illness  was  the  cause  of  keep- 
ing the  girls  in  "  the  had  way"  as  she  called  it.) 
"  For  Lizzy  here,  I  did  hope  that  she  had  repented 
of  it  after  all  my  talking  to  her ;  but  since  I  've 
been  so  bad,  and  the  girls  have  had  to  keep  me 
most  o'  the  time,  she 's  gone  out  of  nights  just  as 
bad  as  ever." 

Lizzy  had  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  the  greater 
part  of  this  speech.  Now  she  looked  up  passion- 
ately, almost  fiercely  — 

"  Repent  —  I  have  repented  —  I  repent  of  it 
every  hour  —  I  hate  myself,  and  hate  all  the  world 
because  of  it ;  but  I  must  —  I  must ;  I  cannot  see 
her  starve,  and  I  cannot  starve  myself.  When  she 
first  fell  sick  she  kept  on  as  long  as  she  could, 
doing  what  she  could,  and  then  between  us  we 
only  earned  three  shillings  a  week,  and  there  was 
ever  so  much  to  take  off  for  fire,  and  twopence  for 
thread,  and  fivepence  for  candles;  and  then  we 
were  always  getting  fined,  because  they  never  gave 
us  out  the  work  till  too  late  on  purpose,  and  then 
they  lowered  prices  again;  and  now  Ellen  can't 
work  at  all,  and  there's  four  of  us  with  the  old 
lady,  to  keep  off  two's  work  that  couldn't  keep 
themselves  alone." 

"  Does  n't  the  parish  allow  the  old  lady  any- 
thing?" I  ventured  to  ask. 


256    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

"They  used  to  allow  half-a-crown  for  a  bit;  and 
the  doctor  ordered  Ellen  things  from  the  parish, 
but  it  is  n't  half  of  'em  she  ever  got ;  and  when  the 
meat  came,  it  was  half  times  not  fit  to  eat,  and 
when  it  was  her  stomach  turned  against  it.  If  she 
was  a  lady  she  'd  be  cockered  up  with  all  sorts  of 
soups  and  jellies,  and  nice  things,  just  the  minute 
she  fancied  'em,  and  lie  on  a  water  bed  instead  of 
the  bare  floor  —  and  so  she  ought ;  but  where 's 
the  parish  '11  do  that?  And  the  hospital  would  n't 
take  her  in  because  she  was  incurable;  and,  be- 
sides, the  old  'un  would  n't  let  her  go  —  nor  into 
the  union  neither.  When  she 's  in  a  good-humor 
like,  she  '11  sit  by  her  by  the  hour,  holding  her 
hand  and  kissing  of  it,  and  nursing  of  it,  for  all  the 
world  like  a  doll.  But  she  won't  hear  of  the  work- 
house ;  so  now,  these  last  three  weeks,  they  takes 
off  all  her  pay,  because  they  says  she  must  go  into 
the  house,  and  not  kill  her  daughter  by  keeping  her 
out —  as  if  they  warn't  a-killing  her  themselves." 

"  No  workhouse  —  no  workhouse  !  "  said  the  old 
woman,  turning  round  suddenly,  in  a  clear,  lofty 
voice.  "  No  workhouse,  sir,  for  an  officer's 
daughter ! " 

And  she  relapsed  into  her  stupor. 

At  that  moment  the  other  girl  entered  with  the 
coals  —  but  without  staying  to  light  the  fire,  ran 
up  to  Ellen  with  some  trumpery  dainty  she  had 
bought,  and  tried  to  persuade  her  to  eat  it. 

"  We  have  been  telling  Mr.  Mackaye  everything," 
said  poor  Lizzy. 

"A  pleasant  story,  isn't  it?  Oh!  if  that  fine 
lady,  as  we  're  making  that  riding-habit  for,  would 
just  spare  only  half  the  money  that  goes  to  dress- 
ing her  up  to  ride  in  the  park,  to  send  us  out  to 


Light  in  a  Dark  Place  257 

the  colonies,  wouldn't  I  be  an  honest  girl  there? 
—  maybe  an  honest  man's  wife !  Oh,  my  God, 
would  n't  I  slave  my  fingers  to  the  bone  to  work 
for  him !  Would  n't  I  mend  my  life  then !  I 
couldn't  help  it  —  it  would  be  like  getting  into 
heaven  out  of  hell.  But  now  —  we  must  —  we 
must,  I  tell  you.  I  shall  go  mad  soon,  I  think,  or 
take  to  drink.  When  I  passed  the  gin-shop  down 
there  just  now,  I  had  to  run  like  mad  for  fear  I 

should  go  in ;  and  if  I  once  took  to  that Now 

then,  to  work  again.     Make  up  the  fire,  Mrs. , 

please  do." 

And  she  sat  down,  and  began  stitching  frantically 
at  the  riding-habit,  from  which  the  other  girl  had 
hardly  lifted  her  hands  or  eyes  for  a  moment 
during  our  visit. 

We  made  a  motion  as  if  to  go. 

"  God  bless  you,"  said  Ellen ;  "  come  again  soon, 
dear  Mr.  Mackaye." 

"  Good-bye,"  said  the  elder  girl ;  "  and  good-night 
to  you.  Night  and  day 's  all  the  same  here  —  we 
must  have  this  home  by  seven  o'clock  to-morrow 
morning.  My  lady 's  going  to  ride  early,  they  say, 
whoever  she  may  be,  and  we  must  just  sit  up  all 
night.  It 's  often  we  have  n't  had  our  clothes  off 
for  a  week  together,  from  four  in  the  morning  till 
two  the  next  morning  sometimes  —  stitch,  stitch, 
stitch.  Somebody's  wrote  a  song  about  that  — 
I  '11  learn  to  sing  it  —  it  '11  sound  fitting-like  up 
here." 

"  Better  sing  hymns,"  said  Ellen. 

"Hymns  for ?"  answered   the   other,  and 

then  burst  out  into  that  peculiar,  wild,  ringing, 
fiendish  laugh  —  has  my  reader  never  heard  it? 

I  pulled  out  two  or  three  shillings  which  I  pos- 

Vol.  Ill— 12 


258     Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

sessed,  and  tried  to  make  the  girls  take  them,  for 
the  sake  of  poor  Ellen. 

"  No ;  you  're  a  workingman,  and  we  won't 
feed  on  you  —  you  '11  want  it  some  day  —  all  the 
trade 's  going  the  same  way  as  we,  as  fast  as  ever 
it  can !  " 

Sandy  and  I  went  down  the  stairs. 

*'  Poetic  element?  Yon  lassie,  rejoicing  in  her 
disfigurement  and  not  her  beauty  —  like  the  nuns 
of  Peterborough  in  auld  time  —  is  there  na  poetry 
there?  That  puir  lassie,  dying  on  the  bare  boards, 
and  seeing  her  Saviour  in  her  dreams,  is  there  na 
poetry  there,  callant?  That  auld  body  owre  the 
fire,  wi'  her  *  an  officer's  dochter,'  is  there  na 
poetry  there?  That  ither,  prostituting  hersel'  to 
buy  food  for  her  freen  —  is  there  na  poetry  there  ? 
—  tragedy  — 

With  hues  as  when  some  mighty  painter  dips 
His  pen  in  dyes  of  earthquake  and  eclipse. 

Ay,  Shelley's  gran',  always  gran';  but  Fact  is 
grander  —  God  and  Satan  are  grander.  All  around 
ye,  in  every  gin  shop  and  costermonger's  cellar  are 
God  and  Satan  at  death  grips ;  every  garret  is  a 
haill  Paradise  Lost  or  Paradise  Regained;  and 
will  ye  think  it  beneath  ye  to  be  the  *  People's 
Poet'?" 


CHAPTER  IX 

POETRY  AND   POETS 

IN  the  history  of  individuals,  as  well  as  in  that  of 
nations,  there  is  often  a  period  of  sudden 
blossoming —  a  short  luxuriant  summer,  not  with- 
out its  tornadoes  and  thunder-glooms,  in  which  all 
the  buried  seeds  of  past  observation  leap  forth  to- 
gether into  life,  and  form,  and  beauty.  And  such 
with  me  were  the  two  years  that  followed.  I 
thought  —  I  talked  poetry  to  myself  all  day  long. 
I  wrote  nightly  on  my  return  from  work.  I  am 
astonished,  on  looking  back,  at  the  variety  and 
quantity  of  my  productions  during  that  short  time. 
My  subjects  were  intentionally  and  professedly 
cockney  ones.  I  had  taken  Mackaye  at  his  word. 
I  had  made  up  my  mind,  that  if  I  had  any  poetic 
power,  I  must  do  my  duty  therewith  in  that  station 
of  life  to  which  it  had  pleased  God  to  call  me,  and 
look  at  everything  simply  and  faithfully  as  a  Lon- 
don artisan.  To  this,  I  suppose,  is  to  be  attributed 
the  little  geniality  and  originality  for  which  the 
public  have  kindly  praised  my  verses  —  a  geniality 
which  sprung,  not  from  the  atmosphere  whence  I 
drew,  but  from  the  honesty  and  single-mindedness 
with  which,  I  hope,  I  labored.  Not  from  the 
atmosphere,  indeed,  —  that  was  ungenial  enough ; 
crime  and  poverty,  all-devouring  competition,  and 


26o    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

hopeless  struggles  againt  Mammon  and  Moloch, 
amid  the  roar  of  wheels,  the  ceaseless  stream  of 
pale,  hard  faces,  intent  on  gain,  or  brooding  over 
woe ;  amid  endless  prison  walls  of  brick,  beneath 
a  lurid,  crushing  sky  of  smoke  and  mist.  It  was 
a  dark,  noisy,  thunderous  element  that  London 
life;  a  troubled  sea  that  cannot  rest,  casting  up 
mire  and  dirt ;  resonant  of  the  clanking  of  chains, 
the  grinding  of  remorseless  machinery,  the  wail  of 
lost  spirits  from  the  pit.  And  it  did  its  work  upon 
me;  it  gave  a  gloomy  coloring,  a  glare  as  of 
some  Dantean  "  Inferno,"  to  all  my  utterances.  It 
did  not  excite  me  or  make  me  fierce  —  I  was  too 
much  inured  to  it —  but  it  crushed  and  saddened 
me  ;  it  deepened  in  me  that  peculiar  melancholy 
of  intellectual  youth,  which  Mr.  Carlyle  has  chris- 
tened forever  by  one  of  his  immortal  nicknames 
—  "  Wertherism"  ;  I  battened  on  my  own  melan- 
choly. I  believed,  I  loved  to  believe,  that  every 
face  I  passed  bore  the  traces  of  discontent  as  deep 
as  was  my  own  —  and  was  I  so  far  wrong  ?  Was 
I  so  far  wrong  either  in  the  gloomy  tone  of 
my  own  poetry?  Should  not  a  London  poet's 
work  just  now  be  to  cry,  like  the  Jew  of  old,  about 
the  walls  of  Jerusalem,  "  Woe,  woe  to  this  city  "  ? 
Is  this  a  time  to  listen  to  the  voices  of  singing  men 
and  singing  women  ?  or  to  cry,  "  Oh !  that  my 
head  were  a  fountain  of  tears,  that  I  might  weep 
for  the  sins  of  my  people  "  ?  Is  it  not  noteworthy, 
also,  that  it  is  in  this  vein  that  the  London  poets 
have  always  been  greatest?  Which  of  poor  Hood's 
lyrics  have  an  equal  chance  of  immortality  with 
"The  Song  of  the  Shirt"  and  "The  Bridge  of 
Sighs,"  rising,  as  they  do,  right  out  of  the  depths 
of  that  inferno,  sublime  from  their  very  simplicity? 


Poetry  and  Poets  261 

Which  of  Charles  Mackay's  lyrics  can  compare  fof 
a  moment  with  the  Eschylean  grandeur,  the  terrible 
rhythmic  lilt  of  his  *»  Cholera  Chant"?  — 

Dense  on  the  stream  the  vapors  lay, 
Thick  as  wool  on  the  cold  highway; 
Spungy  and  dim  each  lonely  lamp 
Shone  o'er  the  streets  so  dull  and  damp; 
The  moonbeams  could  not  pierce  the  cloud 
That  swathed  the  city  like  a  shroud ; 
There  stood  three  shapes  on  the  bridge  alone, 
Three  figures  by  the  coping-stone ; 
Gaunt  and  tall  and  undefined, 
Spectres  built  of  mist  and  wind. 

I  see  his  footmarks  east  and  west  — 

I  hear  his  tread  in  the  silence  fall  — 

He  shall  not  sleep,  he  shall  not  rest— 

He  comes  to  aid  us  one  and  all. 

Were  men  as  wise  as  men  might  be, 

They  would  not  work  for  you,  for  me. 

For  him  that  cometh  over  the  sea ; 

But  they  will  not  hear  the  warning  voice: 

The  Cholera  comes,  —  Rejoice !  rejoice  I 

He  shall  be  lord  of  the  swarming  town ! 

And  mow  them  down,  and  mow  them  down  I 


Not  that  I  neglected,  on  the  other  hand,  every 
means  of  extending  the  wanderings  of  my  spirit 
into  sunnier  and  more  verdant  pathways.  If  I  had 
to  tell  the  gay  ones  above  of  the  gloom  around 
me,  I  had  also  to  go  forth  into  the  sunshine,  to 
bring  home  if  it  were  but  a  wild-flower  garland  to' 
those  that  sit  in  darkness  and  the  shadow  of  death. 
That  was  all  that  I  could  offer  them.  The  reader 
shall  judge,  when  he  has  read  this  book  throughout, 
whether  I  did  not  at  last  find  for  them  something 
better  than  even  all  the  beauties  of  nature. 


262     Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

But  it  was  on  canvas,  and  not  among  realities, 
that  I  had  to  choose  my  garlands ;  and  therefore 
the  picture  galleries  became  more  than  ever  my 
favorite  —  haunt,  I  was  going  to  say ;  but,  alas ! 
it  was  not  six  times  a  year  that  I  got  access  to 
them.  Still,  when  once  every  May  I  found  my- 
self, by  dint  of  a  hard-saved  shilling,  actually 
within  the  walls  of  that  to  me  enchanted  palace, 
the  Royal  Academy  exhibition  —  Oh,  ye  rich ! 
who  gaze  round  you  at  will  upon  your  prints  and 
pictures,  if  hunger  is,  as  they  say,  a  better  sauce 
than  any  Ude  invents,  and  fasting  itself  may  be- 
come the  handmaid  of  luxury,  you  should  spend, 
as  I  did  perforce,  weeks  and  months  shut  out  from 
every  glimpse  of  nature,  if  you  would  taste  her 
beauties,  even  on  canvas,  with  perfect  relish  and 
childish  self-abandonment.  How  I  loved  and 
blessed  those  painters!  how  I  thanked  Creswick 
for  every  transparent  shade-chequered  pool ;  Field- 
ing, for  every  rain-clad  down ;  Cooper,  for  every 
knot  of  quiet  cattle  beneath  the  cool  gray  willows ; 
Stanfield,  for  every  snowy  peak,  and  sheet  of  foam- 
fringed  sapphire  —  each  and  every  one  of  them  a 
leaf  out  of  the  magic  book  which  else  was  ever 
closed  to  me.  Again,  I  say,  how  I  loved  and  blest 
those  painters !  On  the  other  hand,  I  was  not  neg- 
lecting to  read  as  well  as  to  write  poetry ;  and,  to 
speak  first  of  the  highest,  I  know  no  book,  always 
excepting  Milton,  which  at  once  so  quickened  and 
exalted  my  poetical  view  of  man  and  his  history, 
as  that  great  prose  poem,  the  single  epic  of  modern 
days,  Thomas  Carlyle's  "  French  Revolution."  Of 
the  general  effect  which  his  works  had  on  me,  I 
shall  say  nothing :  it  was  the  same  as  they  have  had, 
thank  God,  on  thousands  of  my  class  and  of  every 


Poetry  and  Poets  263 

other.  But  that  book  above  all  first  recalled  me 
to  the  overwhelming  and  yet  ennobling  knowledge 
that  there  was  such  a  thing  as  Duty ;  first  taught 
me  to  see  in  history  not  the  mere  farce-tragedy  of 
man's  crimes  and  follies,  but  the  dealings  of  a 
righteous  Ruler  of  the  universe,  whose  ways  are 
in  the  great  deep,  and  whom  the  sins  and  errors, 
as  well  as  the  virtues  and  discoveries  of  man,  must 
obey  and  justify. 

Then,  in  a  happy  day,  I  fell  on  Alfred  Tenny- 
son's poetry,  and  found  there,  astonished  and  de- 
lighted, the  embodiment  of  thoughts  about  the 
earth  around  me  which  I  had  concealed,  because  I 
fancied  them  peculiar  to  myself.  Why  is  it  that  the 
latest  poet  has  generally  the  greatest  influence  over 
the  minds  of  the  young?  Surely  not  for  the  mere 
charm  of  novelty?  The  reason  is  that  he,  living 
amid  the  same  hopes,  the  same  temptations,  the 
same  sphere  of  observation  as  they,  gives  utterance 
and  outward  form  to  the  very  questions  which, 
vague  and  wordless,  have  been  exercising  their 
hearts.  And  what  endeared  Tennyson  especially 
to  me,  the  workingman,  was,  as  I  afterwards  dis- 
covered, the  altogether  democratic  tendency  of  his 
poems.  True,  all  great  poets  are  by  their  office 
democrats ;  seers  of  man  only  as  man ;  singers  of 
the  joys,  the  sorrows,  the  aspirations  common  to 
all  humanity ;  but  in  Alfred  Tennyson  there  is  an 
element  especially  democratic,  truly  levelling ;  not 
his  political  opinions,  about  which  I  know  nothing, 
and  care  less,  but  his  handling  of  the  trivial  every- 
day sights  and  sounds  of  nature.  Brought  up,  as 
I  understand,  in  a  part  of  England  which  possesses 
not  much  of  the  picturesque,  and  nothing  of  that 
which  the  vulgar  call  sublime,  he  has  learnt  to  see 


264    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

that  in  all  nature,  in  the  hedgerow  and  the  sand- 
bank, as  well  as  in  the  alp  peak  and  the  ocean 
waste,  is  a  world  01  true  sublimity,  —  a  minute 
infinite,  —  an  ever  fertile  garden  of  poetic  images, 
the  roots  of  which  are  in  the  unfathomable  and  the 
eternal,  as  truly  as  any  phenomenon  which  aston- 
ishes and  awes  the  eye.  The  descriptions  of  the 
desolate  pools  and  creeks  where  the  dying  swan 
floated,  the  hint  of  the  silvery  marsh  mosses  by 
Mariana's  moat,  came  to  me  like  revelations.  I 
always  knew  there  was  something  beautiful,  won- 
derful, sublime,  in  those  flowery  dykes  of  Battersea 
Fields;  in  the  long  gravelly  sweeps  of  that  lone 
tidal  shore ;  and  here  was  a  man  who  had  put  them 
into  words  for  me !  This  is  what  I  call  democratic 
lart  —  the  revelation  of  the  poetry  which  lies  in 
common  things.  And  surely  all  the  age  is  tend- 
ing in  that  direction :  in  Landseer  and  his  dogs  — 
in  Fielding  and  his  downs,  with  a  host  of  noble 
fellow-artists  —  and  in  all  authors  who  have  really 
seized  the  nation's  mind,  from  Crabbe  and  Burns 
and  Wordsworth  to  Hood  and  Dickens,  the  great 
tide  sets  ever  onward,  outward,  towards  that  which 
is  common  to  the  many,  not  that  which  is  exclu- 
sive to  the  few  —  towards  the  likeness  of  Him  who 
causes  His  rain  to  fall  on  the  just  and  the  unjust, 
and  His  sun  to  shine  on  the  evil  and  the  good ; 
who  knoweth  the  cattle  upon  a  thousand  hills,  and 
all  the  beasts  of  the  field  are  in  His  sight. 

Well  —  I  must  return  to  my  story.  And  here 
some  one  may  ask  me,  "  But  did  you  not  find  this 
true  spiritual  democracy,  this  universal  knowledge 
and  sympathy,  in  Shakespeare  above  all  other 
poets?"  It  may  be  my  shame  to  have  to  confess 
it;  but  though  I  find  it  now,  I  did  not  then.    I  do 


Poetry  and  Poets  265 

not  think,  however,  my  case  is  singular:  from 
what  I  can  ascertain,  there  is,  even  with  regularly- 
educated  minds,  a  period  of  life  at  which  that 
great  writer  is  not  appreciated,  just  on  account  of 
his  very  greatness;  on  account  of  the  deep  and 
large  experience  which  the  true  understanding  of 
his  plays  requires  —  experience  of  man,  of  history, 
of  art,  and  above  all  of  those  sorrows  whereby,  as 
Hezekiah  says,  and  as  I  have  learnt  almost  too 
well  — "  whereby  men  live,  and  in  all  which  is 
the  life  of  the  spirit."  At  seventeen,  indeed,  I 
had  devoured  Shakespeare,  though  merely  for  the 
food  to  my  fancy  which  his  plots  and  incidents 
supplied,  for  the  gorgeous  coloring  of  his  scenery: 
but  at  the  period  of  which  I  am  now  writing,  I  had 
exhausted  that  source  of  mere  pleasure;  I  was 
craving  for  more  explicit  and  dogmatic  teaching 
than  any  which  he  seemed  to  supply;  and  for 
three  years,  strange  as  it  may  appear,  I  hardly 
ever  looked  into  his  pages.  Under  what  circum- 
stances I  afterwards  recurred  to  his  exhaustless 
treasures,  my  readers  shall  in  due  time  be 
told. 

So  I  worked  away  manfully  with  such  tools  and 
stock  as  I  possessed,  and  of  course  produced,  at 
first,  like  all  young  writers,  some  sufficiently  ser- 
vile imitations  of  my  favorite  poets. 

"Ugh!"  said  Sandy,  "wha  wants  mongrels 
atween  Burns  and  Tennyson?  A  gude  stock 
baith :  but  gin  ye  'd  cross  the  breed  ye  maun  unite 
the  spirits,  and  no  the  manners,  o'  the  men.  Why 
maun  ilk  a  one  the  noo  steal  his  neebor's  barnacles, 
before  he  glints  out  o*  windows?  Mak  a  style  for 
yoursel',  laddie;  ye 're  na  mair  Scots  hind  than  ye 
are  Lincolnshire  laird :  sae  gang  yer  ain  gate  and 


266    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

leave  them  to  gang  theirs ;  and  just  male  a  gran*, 
brode,  simple,  Saxon  style  for  yoursel'." 

"  But  how  can  I,  till  I  know  what  sort  of  a  style 
it  ought  to  be?" 

"  Oh !  but  yon  *s  amazing  like  Tom  Sheridan's 
answer  to  his  father.  *  Tom/  says  the  auld  man, 
*  I  *m  thinking  ye  maun  tak  a  wife.'  —  '  Verra 
weel,  father,'  says  the  puir  skellum ;  '  and  wha's 
wife  shall  I  tak?  '  Wha's  style  shall  I  tak?  say  all 
the  callants  the  noo.  Mak  a  style  as  ye  would 
mak  a  wife,  by  marrying  her  a'  to  yoursel' ;  and 
ye  '11  nae  mair  ken  what 's  your  style  till  it 's  made, 
then  ye  '11  ken  what  your  wife 's  like  till  she 's  been 
mony  a  year  by  your  ingle." 

"  My  dear  Mackaye,"  I  said,  **  you  have  the  most 
unmerciful  way  of  raising  difficulties,  and  then  leav- 
ing poor  fellows  to  lay  the  ghost  for  themselves." 

"  Hech,  then,  I  'm  a'thegither  a  negative  teacher, 
as  they  ca'  it  in  the  new  lallans.  I  '11  gang  out  o' 
my  gate  to  tell  a  man  his  kye  are  laired,  but  I  'm 
no  obligated  thereby  to  pu'  them  out  for  him. 
After  a*,  nae  man  is  rid  o'  a  difficulty  till  he  's 
conquered  it  single-handed  for  himsel':  besides, 
I'm  na  poet,  mair's  the  gude  hap  for  you." 

"Why,  then?" 

"  Och,  och !  they  *re  puir,  feckless,  crabbit,  un- 
practical bodies,  they  poets ;  but  if  it 's  your  doom, 
ye  maun  dree  it;  and  I  'm  sair  afeard  ye  ha'  gotten 
the  disease  o*  genius,  mair's  the  pity,  and  maun 
write,  I  suppose,  willy-nilly.  Some  folks'  booels 
are  that  made  o'  catgut,  that  they  canna  stir  with- 
out chirruping  and  screeking." 

However,  cestro  percitus,  I  wrote  on ;  and  in 
about  two  years  and  a  half  had  got  together 
**  Songs  of  the  Highways  "  enough  to  fill  a  small 


Poetry  and  Poets  267 

octavo  volume,  the  circumstances  of  whose  birth 
shall  be  given  hereafter.  Whether  I  ever  attained 
to  anything  like  an  original  style,  readers  must 
judge  for  themselves  —  the  readers  of  the  same 
volume  I  mean,  for  I  have  inserted  none  of  those 
poems  in  this  my  autobiography;'  first,  because  it 
seems  too  like  puffing  my  own  works;  and  next, 
because  I  do  not  want  to  injure  the  as  yet  not  over 
great  sale  of  the  same.  But,  if  any  one's  curiosity 
is  so  far  excited  that  he  wishes  to  see  what  I  have 
accomplished,  the  best  advice  which  I  can  give 
him  is,  to  go  'forth,  and  buy  all  the  workingmen's 
poetry  which  has  appeared  during  the  last  twenty 
years,  without  favor  or  exception;  among  which 
he  must  needs,  of  course,  find  mine,  and  also,  I  am 
happy  to  say,  a  great  deal  which  is  much  better 
and  more  instructive  than  mine. 


CHAPTER  X 

HOW  FOLKS  TURN  CHARTISTS 

THOSE  who  read  my  story  oi\Jy  for  amuse- 
ment, I  advise  to  skip  this  chapter.  Those, 
on  the  other  hand,  who  really  wish  to  ascertain 
what  workingmen  actually  do  suffer  —  to  see 
whether  their  political  discontent  has  not  its  roots, 
not  merely  in  fanciful  ambition,  but  in  misery  and 
slavery  most  real  and  agonizing  —  those  in  "whose 
eyes  the  accounts  of  a  system,  or  rather  barbaric 
absence  of  all  system,  which  involves  starvation, 
nakedness,  prostitution,  and  long  imprisonment  in 
dungeons  worse  than  the  cells  of  the  Inquisition, 
will  be  invested  with  something  at  least  of  tragic 
interest,  may,  I  hope,  think  it  worth  their  while  to 
learn  how  the  clothes  which  they  wear  are  made, 
and  listen  to  a  few  occasional  statistics,  which, 
though  they  may  seem  to  the  wealthy  mere  lists 
of  dull  figures,  are  to  the  workmen  symbols  of 
terrible  physical  realities  —  of  hunger,  degradation, 
and  despair.* 

1  Facts  still  worse  than  those  which  Mr.  Locke's  story  contains 
have  been  made  public  by  the  "  Morning  Chronicle  "  in  a  series  of 
noble  letters  on  "  Labor  and  the  Poor " ;  which  we  entreat  all 
Christian  people  to  "  read,  mark,  learn,  and  inwardly  digest." 
"  That  will  be  better  for  them,"  as  Mahomet,  in  similar  cases, 
used  to  say. 


How  Folks  Turn  Chartists       269 

Well:  one  day  our  employer  died.  He  had 
been  one  of  the  old  sort  of  fashionable  West-End 
tailors  in  the  fast  decreasing  honorable  trade; 
keeping  a  modest  shop,  hardly  to  be  distinguished 
from  a  dwelling-house,  except  by  his  name  on  the 
window  blinds.  He  paid  good  prices  for  work, 
though  not  as  good,  of  course,  as  he  had  given 
twenty  years  before,  and  prided  himself  upon 
having  all  his  work  done  at  home.  His  work- 
rooms, as  I  have  said,  were  no  elysiums ;  but  still, 
as  good,  alas  !  as  those  of  three  tailors  out  of  four. 
He  was  proud,  luxurious,  foppish;  but  he  was 
honest  and  kindly  enough,  and  did  many  a  gen- 
erous thing  by  men  who  had  been  long  in  his 
employ.  At  all  events,  his  journeymen  could  live 
on  what  he  paid  them. 

But  his  son,  succeeding  to  the  business,  deter- 
mined, like  Rehoboam  of  old,  to  go  ahead  with 
the  times.  Fired  with  the  great  spirit  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  —  at  least  with  that  one  which  is 
vulgarly  considered  its  especial  glory  —  he  resolved 
to  make  haste  to  be  rich.  His  father  had  made 
money  very  slowly  of  late ;  while  dozens,  who  had 
begun  business  long  after  him,  had  now  retired  to 
luxurious  ease  and  suburban  villas.  Why  should 
he  remain  in  the  minority?  Why  should  he 
not  get  rich  as  fast  as  he  could?  Why  should 
he  stick  to  the  old,  slow-going,  honorable  trade? 
Out  of  some  four  hundred  and  fifty  West-End 
tailors,  there  were  not  one  hundred  left  who 
were  old-fashioned  and  stupid  enough  to  go  on 
keeping  down  their  own  profits  by  having  all  their 
work  done  at  home  and  at  first-hand.  Ridicu- 
lous scruples !  The  government  knew  none  such. 
Were  not  the  army  clothes,  the  post-office  clothes, 


270    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

the  policemen's  clothes,  furnished  by  contractors 
and  sweaters,  who  hired  the  work  at  low  prices, 
and  let  it  out  again  to  journeymen  at  still  lower 
ones?  Why  should  he  pay  his  men  two  shillings 
where  the  government  paid  them  one?  Were 
there  not  cheap  houses  even  at  the  West  End, 
which  had  saved  several  thousands  a  year  merely 
by  reducing  their  workmen's  wages?  And  if  the 
workmen  chose  to  take  lower  wages,  he  was  not 
bound  actually  to  make  them  a  present  of  more 
than  they  asked  for?  They  would  go  to  the 
cheapest  market  for  anything  they  wanted,  and  so 
must  he.  Besides,  wages  had  really  been  quite 
exorbitant.  Half  his  men  threw  each  of  them  as 
much  money  away  in  gin  and  beer  yearly,  as 
would  pay  two  workmen  at  cheap  house.  Why 
was  he  to  be  robbing  his  family  of  comforts  to  pay 
for  their  extravagance?  And  charging  his  cus- 
tomers, too,  unnecessarily  high  prices  —  it  was 
really  robbing  the  public ! 

Such,  I  suppose,  were  some  of  the  arguments 
which  led  to  an  official  announcement,  one  Satur- 
day night,  that  our  young  employer  intended  to 
enlarge  his  establishment,  for  the  purpose  of  com- 
mencing business  in  the  "  show-trade  " ;  and  that, 
emulous  of  Messrs.  Aaron,  Levi,  and  the  rest  of 
that  class,  magnificent  alterations  were  to  take 
place  in  the  premises,  to  make  room  for  which  our 
workrooms  were  to  be  demolished,  and  that  for 
that  reason  —  for  of  course  it  was  only  for  that 
reason  —  all  work  would  in  future  be  given  out,  to 
be  made  up  at  the  men's  own  homes. 

Our  employer's  arguments,  if  they  were  such  as 
I  suppose,  were  reasonable  enough  according  to 
the  present  code   of  commercial   morality.     But* 


How  Folks  Turn  Chartists       271 

strange  to  say,  the  auditory,  insensible  to  the 
delight  with  which  the  public  would  view  the 
splendid  architectural  improvements  —  with  taste 
too  grovelling  to  appreciate  the  glories  of  plate- 
glass  shop-fronts  and  brass  scroll  work  —  too  self- 
ish to  rejoice,  for  its  own  sake,  in  the  beauty  of 
arabesques  and  chandeliers,  which,  though  they 
never  might  behold,  the  astonished  public  would 

—  with  souls  too  niggardly  to  leap  for  joy  at  the 
thought  that  gents  would  henceforth  buy  the  regis- 
tered guanaco  vest,  and  the  patent  elastic  omni- 
seasonum  paletdt  half-a-crown  cheaper  than  ever 

—  or  that  needy  noblemen  would  pay  three-pound- 
ten  instead  of  five  pounds  for  their  footmen's 
liveries  —  received  the  news,  clod-hearted  as  they 
were,  in  sullen  silence,  and  actually,  when  they  got 
into  the  street,  broke  out  into  murmurs,  perhaps 
into  execrations. 

"  Silence !  "  said  Crossthwaite ;  *•  walls  have 
ears.  Come  down  to  the  nearest  house  of  call, 
and  talk  it  out  like  men,  instead  of  grumbling  in 
the  street  like  fish-fags." 

So  down  we  went.  Crossthwaite,  taking  my 
arm,  strode  on  in  moody  silence  —  once  mutter- 
ing to  himself  bitterly  — 

"  Oh,  yes ;  all  right  and  natural !  What  can 
the  little  sharks  do  but  follow  the  big  ones?  " 

We  took  a  room,  and  Crossthwaite  coolly  saw 
us  all  in;  and  locking  the  door,  stood  with  his 
back  against  it. 

"  Now  then,  mind,  *  One  and  all,'  as  the  Cornish- 
men  say,  and  no  preaching.  If  any  man  is  scoun- 
drel enough  to  carry  tales,  I  '11 " 

"Do  what?"  asked  Jemmy  Downes,  who  had 
settled  himself  on   the  table,  with   a  pipe  and  a 


272    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

pot  of  porter.  "  You  arn't  the  king  of  the  Can- 
nibal Islands,  as  I  know  of,  to  cut  a  cove's  head 
off?" 

"No;  but  if  a  poor  man's  prayer  can  bring 
God's  curse  down  upon  a  traitor's  head  —  it  may 
stay  on  his  rascally  shoulders  till  it  rots." 

"  If  ifs  and  ans  were  pots  and  pans.  Look  at 
Shechem  Isaacs,  that  sold  penknives  in  the  streets 
six  months  ago,  now  a-riding  in  his  own  carriage, 
all  along  of  turning  sweater.  If  God's  curse  is 
like  that  —  I  '11  be  happy  to  take  any  man's  share 
of  it." 

Some  new  idea  seemed  twinkling  in  the  fellow's 
cunning  bloated  face  as  he  spoke.  I,  and  others 
also,  shuddered  at  his  words;  but  we  all  forgot 
them  a  moment  afterwards,  as  Crossthwaite  began 
to  speak. 

"  We  were  all  bound  to  expect  this.  Every  work- 
ing tailor  must  come  to  this  at  last,  on  the  present 
system;  and  we  are  only  lucky  in  having  been 
spared  so  long.  You  all  know  where  this  will  end 
—  in  the  same  misery  as  fifteen  thousand  out  of 
twenty  thousand  of  our  class  are  enduring  now. 
We  shall  become  the  slaves,  often  the  bodily  pris- 
oners, of  Jews,  middle-men,  and  sweaters,  who  draw 
their  livelihood  out  of  our  starvation.  We  shall 
have  to  face,  as  the  rest  have,  ever  decreasing 
prices  of  labor,  ever  increasing  profits  made  out 
of  that  labor  by  the  contractors  who  will  employ 
us  —  arbitrary  fines,  inflicted  at  the  caprice  of  hire- 
lings—  the  competition  of  women,  and  children, 
and  starving  Irish —  our  hours  of  work  will  increase 
one-third,  our  actual  pay  decrease  to  less  than 
one-half;  and  in  all  this  we  shall  have  no  hope, 
no  chance  of  improvement   in   wages,   but  ever 


How  Folks  Turn  Chartists       273 

more  penury,  slavery,  misery,  as  we  are  pressed 
on  by  those  who  are  sucked  by  fifties  —  almost  by 
hundreds  —  yearly,  out  of  the  honorable  trade  in 
which  we  were  brought  up,  into  the  infernal  system 
of  contract  work,  which  is  devouring  our  trade  and 
many  others,  body  and  soul.  Our  wives  will  be 
forced  to  sit  up  night  and  day  to  help  us  —  our 
children  must  labor  from  the  cradle  without  chance 
of  going  to  school,  hardly  of  breathing  the  fresh  air 
of  heaven,  —  our  boys,  as  they  grow  up,  must  turn 
beggars  or  paupers  —  our  daughters,  as  thousands 
do,  must  eke  out  their  miserable  earnings  by  pros- 
titution. And  after  all,  a  whole  family  will  not 
gain  what  one  of  us  had  been  doing,  as  yet,  single- 
handed.  You  know  there  will  be  no  hope  for  us. 
There  is  no  use  appealing  to  government  or  parlia- 
ment. I  don't  want  to  talk  politics  here.  I  shall 
keep  them  for  another  place.  But  you  can  recol- 
lect as  well  as  I  can,  when  a  deputation  of  us  went 
up  to  a  member  of  parliament  —  one  that  was 
reputed  a  philosopher,  and  a  political  economist, 
and  a  liberal  —  and  set  before  him  the  ever-increas- 
ing penury  and  misery  of  our  trade,  and  of  those 
connected  with  it ;  you  recollect  his  answer  —  that, 
however  glad  he  would  be  to  help  us,  it  was  im- 
possible —  he  could  not  alter  the  laws  of  nature  — 
that  wages  were  regulated  by  the  amount  of  com- 
petition among  the  men  themselves,  and  that  it 
was  no  business  of  government,  or  any  one  else, 
to  interfere  in  contracts  between  the  employer  and 
employed,  that  those  things  regulated  themselves 
by  the  laws  of  political  economy,  which  it  was 
madness  and  suicide  to  oppose.  He  may  have 
been  a  wise  man.  I  only  know  that  he  was  a  rich 
one.     Every  one  speaks  well  of  the  bridge  which 


274    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

carries  him  over.  Every  one  fancies  the  laws 
which  fill  his  pockets  to  be  God's  laws.  But  I  say 
this,  If  neither  government  nor  members  of  par- 
liament can  help  us,  we  must  help  ourselves. 
Help  yourselves,  and  heaven  will  help  you.  Com- 
bination among  ourselves  is  the  only  chance. 
One  thing  we  can  do  —  sit  still." 

"  And  starve  !  "  said  some  one. 

"  Yes,  and  starve !  Better  starve  than  sin.  I 
say,  it  is  a  sin  to  give  in  to  this  system.  It  is  a  sin  to 
add  our  weight  to  the  crowd  of  artisans  who  are  now 
choking  and  strangling  each  other  to  death,  as  the 
prisoners  did  in  the  black  hole  of  Calcutta.  Let 
those  who  will  turn  beasts  of  prey,  and  feed  upon 
their  fellows;  but  let  us  at  least  keep  ourselves 
pure.  It  may  be  the  law  of  political  civilization, 
the  law  of  nature,  that  the  rich  should  eat  up  the 
poor,  and  the  poor  eat  up  each  other.  Then  I 
here  rise  up  and  curse  that  law,  that  civilization, 
that  nature.  Either  I  will  destroy  them,  or  they 
shall  destroy  me.  As  a  slave,  as  an  increased 
burden  on  my  fellow-sufferers,  I  will  not  live.  So 
help  me  God !  I  will  take  no  work  home  to  my 
house ;  and  I  call  upon  every  one  here  to  combine, 
and  to  sign  a  protest  tp  that  effect" 

"  What 's  the  use  of  that,  my  good  Mr.  Cross- 
thwaite  ?  "  interrupted  some  one,  querulously. 
*'  Don't  you  know  what  came  of  the  strike  a  few 
years  ago,  when  this  piecework  and  sweating 
first  came  in?  The  masters  made  fine  promises, 
and  never  kept  'em ;  and  the  men  who  stood  out 
had  their  places  filled  up  with  poor  devils  who 
were  glad  enough  to  take  the  work  at  any  price 
— just  as  ours  will  be.  There's  no  use  kicking 
against  the  pricks.     All  the  rest  have   come   to 


How  Folks  Turn  Chartists       275 

it,  and  so  must  we.  We  must  live  somehow,  and 
half  a  loaf  is  better  than  no  bread;  and  even 
that  half  loaf  will  go  into  other  men's  mouths, 
if  we  don't  snap  at  it  at  once.  Besides,  we  can't 
force  others  to  strike.  We  may  strike  and  starve 
ourselves,  but  what 's  the  use  of  a  dozen  striking 
out  of  20,000?  " 

"  Will  you  sign  the  protest,  gentlemen, or  not?" 
asked  Crossthwaite,  in  a  determined  voice. 

Some  half-dozen  said  they  would  if  the  others 
would. 

"  And  the  others  won't  Well,  after  all,  one  man 
must  take  the  responsibility,  and  I  am  that  man. 
I  will  sign  the  protest  by  myself  I  will  sweep  a 
crossing  —  I  will  turn  cress-gatherer,  rag-picker; 
I  will  starve  piecemeal,  and  see  my  wife  starve 
with  me ;  but  do  the  wrong  thing  I  will  not !  The 
Cause  wants  martyrs.     If  I  must  be  one,  I  must." 

All  this  while  my  mind  had  been  undergoing  a 
strange  perturbation.  The  notion  of  escaping  that 
infernal  workroom,  and  the  company  I  met  there 
—  of  taking  my  work  home,  and  thereby,  as  I 
hoped,  gaining  more  time  for  study,  at  least 
having  my  books  on  the  spot  ready  at  every  odd 
moment  —  was  most  enticing.  I  had  hailed  the 
proposed  change  as  a  blessing  to  me,  till  I  heard 
Crossthwaite's  arguments  —  not  that  I  had  not 
known  the  facts  before;  but  it  had  never  struck 
me  till  then  that  it  was  a  real  sin  against  my  class 
to  make  myself  a  party  in  the  system  by  which 
they  were  allowing  themselves  (under  temptation 
enough,  God  knows)  to  be  enslaved.  But  now  I 
looked  with  horror  on  the  gulf  of  penury  before 
me,  into  the  vortex  of  which  not  only  I,  but  my 
whole  trade,  seemed  irresistibly  sucked.     I  thought, 


276     Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

with  shame  and  remorse,  of  the  few  shillings  which 
I  had  earned  at  various  times  by  taking  piecework 
home,  to  buy  my  candles  for  study.  I  whispered 
my  doubts  to  Crossthwaite,  as  he  sat,  pale  and 
determined,  watching  the  excited  and  querulous 
discussions  among  the  other  workmen. 

"What?  So  you  expect  to  have  time  to  read? 
Study  after  sixteen  hours  a  day  stitching?  Study, 
when  you  cannot  earn  money  enough  to  keep  you 
from  wasting  and  shrinking  away  day  by  day? 
Study,  with  your  heart  full  of  shame  and  indigna- 
tion, fresh  from  daily  insult  and  injustice?  Study, 
with  the  black  cloud  of  despair  and  penury  in  front 
of  you?  Little  time,  or  heart,  or  strength,  will 
you  have  to  study,  when  you  are  making  the  same 
coats  you  make  now,  at  half  the  price." 

I  put  my  name  down  beneath  Crossthwaite's,  on 
the  paper  which  he  handed  me,  and  went  out  with 
him. 

"  Ay,"  he  muttered  to  himself,  "  be  slaves  — 
what  you  are  worthy  to  be,  that  you  will  be ! 
You  dare  not  combine  —  you  dare  not  starve  — 
you  dare  not  die  —  and  therefore  you  dare  not  be 
free  !  Oh !  for  six  hundred  men  like  Barbaroux's 
Marseillois  —  *  who  knew  how  to  die  *  I  " 

"  Surely,  Crossthwaite,  if  matters  were  properly 
represented  to  the  government,  they  would  not, 
for  their  own  existence's  sake,  to  put  conscience 
out  of  the  question,  allow  such  a  system  to  con- 
tinue growing." 

"  Government — government  ?  You  a  tailor,  and 
not  know  that  government  are  the  very  authors  of 
this  system !  Not  to  know  that  they  first  set  the 
example,  by  getting  the  army  and  navy  clothes 
made  by  contractors,  and  taking  the  lowest  tenders? 


How  Folks  Turn  Chartists       277 

Not  to  know  that  the  police  clothes,  the  postmen's 
clothes,  the  convicts'  clothes,  are  all  contracted 
for  on  the  same  infernal  plan,  by  sweaters,  and 
sweaters'  sweaters,  and  sweaters'  sweaters'  sweaters, 
till  government  work  is  just  the  very  last,  lowest 
resource  to  which  a  poor  starved-out  wretch  be- 
takes himself  to  keep  body  and  soul  together? 
Why,  the  government  prices,  in  almost  every 
department,  are  half,  and  less  than  half,  the  very 
lowest  living  price.  I  tell  you,  the  careless  in- 
iquity of  government  about  these  things  will  come 
out  some  day.  It  will  be  known,  the  whole 
abomination,  and  future  generations  will  class  it 
with  the  tyrannies  of  the  Roman  emperors  and 
the  Norman  barons.  Why,  it's  a  fact,  that  the 
colonels  of  the  regiments  —  noblemen,  most  of 
them  —  make  their  own  vile  profit  out  of  us  tail- 
ors —  out  of  the  pauperism  of  the  men,  the  slavery 
of  the  children,  the  prostitution  of  the  women. 
They  get  so  much  a  uniform  allowed  them  by 
government  to  clothe  the  men  with ;  and  then  — 
then,  they  let  out  the  jobs  to  the  contractors  at 
less  than  half  what  government  give  them,  and 
pocket  the  difference.  And  then  you  talk  of  ap- 
pealing to  government." 

"  Upon  my  word,"  I  said  bitterly,  "  we  tailors 
seem  to  owe  the  army  a  double  grudge.  They 
not  only  keep  under  other  artisans,  but  they  help 
to  starve  us  first,  and  then  shoot  us,  if  we  com- 
plain too  loudly." 

"  Oh,  ho  !  your  blood 's  getting  up,  is  it?  Then 
you  're  in  the  humor  to  be  told  what  you  have 
been  hankering  to  know  so  long  —  where  Mackaye 
and  I  go  at  night.  We  '11  strike  while  the  iron 's 
hot,  and  go  down  to  the  Chartist  meeting  at " 


2/8    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

"  Pardon  me,  my  dear  fellow,"  I  said.  "  I  can- 
not bear  the  thought  of  being  mixed  up  in  con- 
spiracy—  perhaps,  in  revolt  and  bloodshed.  Not 
that  I  am  afraid.  Heaven  knows  I  am  not.  But 
I  am  too  much  harassed,  miserable,  already.  I 
see  too  much  wretchedness  around  me,  to  lend  my 
aid  in  increasing  the  sum  of  suffering,  by  a  single 
atom,  among  rich  and  poor,  even  by  righteous 
vengeance." 

"Conspiracy?  Bloodshed?  What  has  that  to 
do  w^ith  the  Charter?  It  suits  the  venal  mam- 
monite  press  well  enough  to  jumble  them  together, 
and  cry  *  Murder,  rape,  and  robbery,'  whenever 
the  six  points  are  mentioned ;  but  they  know,  and 
any  man  of  common  sense  ought  to  know,  that  the 
Charter  is  just  as  much  an  open  political  question 
as  the  Reform  Bill,  and  ten  times  as  much  as 
Magna  Charta  was,  when  it  got  passed.  What 
have  the  six  points,  right  or  wrong,  to  do  with  the 
question  whether  they  can  be  obtained  by  moral 
force,  and  the  pressure  of  opinion  alone,  or  require 
what  we  call  ulterior  measures  to  get  them  carried? 
Come  along !  " 

So  with  him  I  went  that  night. 

"Well,  Alton!  where  was  the  treason  and  mur- 
der? Your  nose  must  have  been  a  sharp  one,  to 
smell  out  any  there.  Did  you  hear  anything  that 
astonished  your  weak  mind  so  very  exceedingly, 
after  all?" 

"The  only  thing  that  did  astonish  me  was  to 
hear  men  of  my  own  class  —  and  lower  still,  per- 
haps some  of  them  —  speak  with  such  fluency  and 
eloquence.  Such  a  fund  of  information  —  such 
excellent  English  —  where  did  they  get  it  all  ?  " 


How  Folks  Turn  Chartists       279 

"From  the  God  who  knows  nothing  about 
ranks.  They're  the  unknown  great  —  the  unac- 
credited heroes,  as  Master  Thomas  Carlyle  would 
say  —  whom  the  flunkeys  aloft  have  not  acknowl- 
edged yet  —  though  they'll  be  forced  to,  some 
day,  with  a  vengeance.  Are  you  convinced,  once 
for  all?" 

"  I  really  do  not  understand  political  questions, 
Crossthwaite." 

"  Does  it  want  so  very  much  wisdom  to  under- 
stand the  rights  and  the  wrongs  of  all  that?  Are 
the  people  represented?  Are  you  represented? 
Do  you  feel  like  a  man  that 's  got  any  one  to  fight 
your  battle  in  parliament,  my  young  friend,  eh?" 

"  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know " 

"Why,  what  in  the  name  of  common  sense  — 
what  interest  or  feeling  of  yours  or  mine,  or  any 
man's  you  ever  spoke  to,  except  the  shopkeeper, 
do  Aldermen  A or  Lord  C D repre- 
sent? They  represent  property  —  and  we  have 
none.  They  represent  rank  —  we  have  none. 
Vested  interests  —  we  have  none.  Large  capitcds 
—  those  are  just  what  crush  us.  Irresponsibility 
of  employers,  slavery  of  the  employed,  competi- 
tion among  masters,  competition  among  workmen, 
that  is  the  system  they  represent  —  they  preach  it, 
they  glory  in  it.  — Why,  it  is  the  very  ogre  that  is 
eating  us  all  up.  They  are  chosen  by  the  few, 
they  represent  the  few,  and  they  make  laws  for  the 
many — and  yet  you  don't  know  whether  or  not 
the  people  are  represented  I  " 

We  were  passing  by  the  door  of  the  Victoria 
Theatre;  it  was  just  half-price  time  —  and  the 
beggary  and  rascality  of  London  were  pouring  in 
t)D  their  low  amusement,  from  the  neighboring  gin 


28o    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

palaces  and  thieves'  cellars.  A  herd  of  ragged 
boys,  vomiting  forth  slang,  filth,  and  blasphemy, 
pushed  past  us,  compelling  us  to  take  good  care  of 
our  pockets. 

"  Look  there  !  look  at  the  amusements,  the  train- 
ing, the  civilization,  which  the  government  permits 
to  the  children  of  the  people !  —  These  licensed 
pits  of  darkness,  traps  of  temptation,  profligacy, 
and  ruin,  triumphantly  yawning  night  after  night 
—  and  then  tell  me  that  the  people  who  see  their 
children  thus  kidnapped  into  hell  are  represented 
by  a  government  who  licenses  such  things  !  " 

"  Would  a  change  in  the  franchise  cure  that?  " 

"Household  suffrage  mightn't — but  give  us 
the  Charter,  and  we  '11  see  about  it !  Give  us  the 
Charter,  and  we  '11  send  workmen  into  parliament 
that  shall  soon  find  out  whether  something  better 
can't  be  put  in  the  way  of  the  ten  thousand  boys 
and  girls  in  London  who  live  by  theft  and  prosti- 
tution, than  the  tender  mercies  of  the  Victoria  — 
a  pretty  name !  They  say  the  Queen  's  a  good 
woman  —  and  I  don't  doubt  it.  I  wonder  often  if 
she  knows  what  her  precious  namesake  here  is 
like." 

"  But  really,  I  cannot  see  how  a  mere  change  in 
representation  can  cure  such  things  as  that." 

"  Why,  did  n't  they  tell  us,  before  the  Reform 
Bill,  that  extension  of  the  suffrage  was  to  cure 
everything?  And  how  can  you  have  too  much  of 
a  good  thing?  We've  only  taken  them  at  their 
word,  we  Chartists.  Have  n't  all  politicians  been 
preaching  for  years  that  England's  national  great- 
ness was  all  owing  to  her  political  institutions  — 
to  Magna  Charta,  and  the  Bill  of  Rights,  and  rep- 
resentative parliaments,  and  all  that?     It  was  but 


How  Folks  Turn  Chartists       28 1 

the  other  day  I  got  hold  of  some  Tory  paper,  that 
talked  about  the  English  constitution,  and  the 
balance  of  queen,  lords,  and  commons,  as  the  '  Tal- 
ismanic  palladium  '  of  the  country.  'Gad,  we  'II 
see  if  a  move  onward  in  the  same  line  won't  better 
the  matter.  If  the  balance  of  classes  is  such  a 
blessed  thing,  the  sooner  we  get  the  balance  equal, 
the  better;  for  it's  rather  lopsided  just  now,  no 
one  can  deny.  So,  representative  institutions  are 
the  talismanic  palladium  of  the  nation,  are  they? 
The  palladium  of  the  classes  that  have  them,  I 
dare  say ;  and  that 's  the  very  best  reason  why  the 
classes  that  have  n't  got  'em  should  look  out  for 
the  same  palladium  for  themselves.  What 's  sauce 
for  the  gander  is  sauce  for  the  goose,  is  n't  it? 
We'll  try  —  we'll  see  whether  the  talisman  they 
talk  of  has  lost  its  power  all  of  a  sudden  since  '32 

—  whether  we  can't  rub  the  magic  ring  a  little  for 
ourselves  and  call  up  genii  to  help  us  out  of  the 
mire,  as  the  shopkeepers  and  the  gentlemen  have 
done." 

From  that  night  I  was  a  Chartist,  heart  and  soul 

—  and  so  were  a  million  and  a  half  more  of  the 
best  artisans  in  England  —  at  least,  I  had  no  rea- 
son to  be  ashaned  of  my  company.  Yes ;  I  too, 
like  Crossthwaite,  took  the  upper  classes  at  their 
word ;  bowed  down  to  the  idol  of  political  institu- 
tions, and  pinned  my  hopes  of  salvation  on  "  the 
possession  of  one  ten-thousandth  part  of  a  talker 
in  the  national  palaver."  True,  I  desired  the 
Charter,  at  first  (as  I  do,  indeed,  at  this  moment), 
as  a  means  to  glorious  ends  —  not  only  because  it 
would  give  a  chance  of  elevation,  a  free  sphere  of 
action,  to  lowly  worth  and  talent ;  but  because  it 

Vol.  Ill— 13 


282     Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

was  the  path  to  reforms  —  social,  legal,  sanatory, 
educational  —  to  which  the  veriest  Tory — cer- 
tainly not  the  great  and  good  Lord  Ashley  — 
would  not  object.  But  soon,  with  me,  and  I  am 
afraid  with  many,  many  more,  the  means  became, 
by  the  frailty  of  poor  human  nature,  an  end,  an 
idol  in  itself.  I  had  so  made  up  my  mind  that  it 
was  the  only  method  of  getting  what  I  wanted, 
that  I  neglected,  alas !  but  too  often,  to  try  the 
methods  which  lay  already  by  me.  "  If  we  had 
but  the  Charter  "  —  was  the  excuse  for  a  thousand 
lazinesses,  procrastinations.  "  If  we  had  but  the 
Charter  "  —  I  should  be  good,  and  free,  and  happy. 
Fool  that  I  was  !  It  was  within,  rather  than  with- 
out, that  I  needed  reform. 

And  so  I  began  to  look  on  man  (and  too  many 
of  us,  I  am  afraid,  are  doing  so)  as  the  creature 
and  puppet  of  circumstances  —  of  the  particular 
outward  system,  social  or  political,  in  which  he 
happens  to  find  himself.  An  abominable  heresy, 
no  doubt;  but,  somehow,  it  appears  to  me  just 
the  same  as  Benthamites,  and  economists,  and 
high-churchmen,  too,  for  that  matter,  have  been 
preaching  for  the  last  twenty  years  with  great 
applause  from  their  respective  parties.  One  set 
informs  the  world  that  it  is  to  be  regenerated  by 
cheap  bread,  free  trade,  and  that  peculiar  form  of 
the  "  freedom  of  industry "  which,  in  plain  lan- 
guage, signifies  "the  despotism  of  capital";  and 
which,  whatever  it  means,  is  merely  some  outward 
system,  circumstance,  or  "  dodge  "  about  man,  and 
not  in  him.  Another  party's  nostrum  is  more 
churches,  more  schools,  more  clergymen  —  excel- 
lent things  in  their  way  —  better  even  than  cheap 
bread,  or  free  trade,  provided  only  that  they  are 


How  Folks  Turn  Chartists       283 

excellent  —  that  the  churches,  schools,  clergymen, 
are  good  ones.  But  the  party  of  whom  I  am 
speaking  seem  to  us  workmen  to  consider  the 
quality  quite  a  secondary  consideration,  compared 
with  the  quantity.  They  expect  the  world  to  be 
regenerated,  not  by  becoming  more  a  Church  — 
none  would  gladlier  help  them  in  bringing  that 
about  than  the  Chartists  themselves,  paradoxical 
as  it  may  seem  —  but  by  being  dosed  somewhat 
more  with  a  certain  "  Church  system,"  circum- 
stance, or  "  dodge."  For  my  part,  I  seem  to  have 
learnt  that  the  only  thing  to  regenerate  the  world 
is  not  more  of  any  system,  good  or  bad,  but  simply 
more  of  the  Spirit  of  God. 

About  the  supposed  omnipotence  of  the  Charter, 
I  have  found  out  my  mistake.  I  believe  no  more 
in  "  Morison's-Pill-remedies,"  as  Thomas  Carlyle 
calls  them.  Talismans  are  worthless.  The  age  of 
spirit-compelling  spells,  whether  of  parchment  or 
carbuncle,  is  past  —  if,  indeed,  it  ever  existed. 
The  Charter  will  no  more  make  men  good,  than 
political  economy,  or  the  observance  of  the  Church 
Calendar  —  a  fact  which  we  workingmen,  I  really 
believe,  have,  under  the  pressure  of  wholesome 
defeat  and  God-sent  affliction,  found  out  sooner 
than  our  more  "  enlightened "  fellow-idolaters. 
But  at  that  time,  as  I  have  confessed  already,  we 
took  our  betters  at  their  word,  and  believed  in 
Morison's  Pills.  Only,  as  we  looked  at  the  world 
from  among  a  class  of  facts  somewhat  different 
from  theirs,  we  differed  from  them  proportionably 
as  to  our  notions  of  the  proper  ingredients  in  the 
said  Pill. 

•  «..••• 

But  what  became  of  our  protest? 


284    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

It  was  received  —  and  disregarded.  As  for 
turning  us  off,  we  had,  de  facto,  like  Coriolanus, 
banished  the  Romans,  turned  our  master  off.  All 
the  other  hands,  some  forty  in  number,  submitted 
and  took  the  yoke  upon  them,  and  went  down  into 
the  house  of  bondage,  knowing  whither  they  went. 
Every  man  of  them  is  now  a  beggar,  compared 
with  what  he  was  then.  Many  are  dead  in  the 
prime  of  life  of  consumption,  bad  food  and  lodg- 
ing, and  the  peculiar  diseases  of  our  trade.  Some 
have  not  been  heard  of  lately  —  we  fancy  them 
imprisoned  in  some  sweaters'  dens  —  but  thereby 
hangs  a  tale,  whereof  more  hereafter. 

But  it  was  singular,  that  every  one  of  the  six 
who  had  merely  professed  their  conditional  readi- 
ness to  sign  the  protest,  were  contumeliously  dis- 
charged the  next  day,  without  any  reason  being 
assigned.  It  was  evident  that  there  had  been  a 
traitor  at  the  meeting;  and  every  one  suspected 
Jemmy  Downes,  especially  as  he  fell  into  the  new 
system  with  suspiciously  strange  alacrity.  But  it 
was  as  impossible  to  prove  the  offence  against  him 
as  to  punish  him  for  it.  Of  that  wretched  man, 
too,  and  his  subsequent  career,  I  shall  have  some- 
what to  say  hereafter.  Verily,  there  is  a  God  who 
judgeth  the  earth ! 

But  now  behold  me  and  my  now  intimate  and 
beloved  friend,  Crossthwaite,  with  nothing  to  do 

—  a  gentleman-like  occupation ;  but  unfortunately, 
in  our  class,  involving  starvation.  What  was  to 
be  done?  We  applied  for  work  at  several  "hon- 
orable shops";  but  at  all  we  received  the  same 
answer.  Their  trade  was  decreasing  —  the  public 
ran  daily  more  and  more  to  the  cheap  show-shops 

—  and  they  themselves  were  forced,  in  order  to 


How  Folks  Turn  Chartists       285 

compete  with  these  latter,  to  put  more  and  more 
of  their  work  out  at  contract  prices.  Facilis  descen- 
sus Averni!  Having  once  been  hustled  out  of 
the  serried  crowd  of  competing  workmen,  it  was 
impossible  to  force  our  way  in  again.  So,  a  week 
or  ten  days  past,  our  little  stocks  of  money  were 
exhausted.  I  was  down-hearted  at  once;  but 
Crossthwaite  bore  up  gaily  enough. 

"  Katie  and  I  can  pick  a  crust  together  without 
snarling  over  it.  And,  thank  God,  I  have  no  chil- 
dren, and  never  intend  to  have,  if  I  can  keep  true 
to  myself,  till  the  good  times  come." 

"  Oh !  Crossthwaite,  are  not  children  a  bless- 
ing?" 

"  Would  they  be  a  blessing  to  me  now?  No,  my 
lad.  —  Let  those  bring  slaves  into  the  world  who 
will !  I  will  never  beget  children  to  swell  the  num- 
bers of  those  who  are  trampling  each  other  down 
in  the  struggle  for  daily  bread,  to  minister  in  ever- 
deepening  poverty  and  misery  to  the  rich  man's 
luxury  —  perhaps  his  lust." 

"  Then  you  believe  in  the  Malthusian  doctrines  ?  " 

"  I  believe  them  to  be  an  infernal  lie,  Alton 
Locke;  though  good  and  wise  people  like  Miss 
Martineau  may  sometimes  be  deluded  into  preach- 
ing them.  I  believe  there 's  room  on  English  soil 
for  twice  the  number  there  is  now ;  and  when  we 
get  the  Charter  we  '11  prove  it ;  we  '11  show  that  God 
meant  living  human  heads  and  hands  to  be  bless- 
ings and  not  curses,  tools  and  not  burdens.  But  in 
such  times  as  these,  let  those  who  have  wives  be  as 
though  they  had  none  —  as  St.  Paul  said,  when  he 
told  his  people  under  the  Roman  Emperor  to  be 
above  begetting  slaves  and  martyrs.  A  man  of  the 
people  should  keep  himself  as  free  from  encum- 


286    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

brances  as  he  can  just  now.  He  will  find  it  all  the 
more  easy  to  dare  and  suffer  for  the  people,  when 
their  turn  comes " 

And  he  set  his  teeth  firmly,  almost  savagely. 

"  I  think  I  can  earn  a  few  shillings,  now  and  then, 
by  writing  for  a  paper  I  know  of.  If  that  won't  do, 
I  must  take  up  agitating  for  a  trade,  and  live  by 
spouting,  as  many  a  Tory  member  as  well  as 
Radical  ones  do.  A  man  may  do  worse,  for  he 
may  do  nothing.  At  all  events,  my  only  chance 
now  is  to  help  on  the  Charter;  for  the  sooner  it 
comes  the  better  for  me.  And  if  I  die  —  why,  the 
little  woman  won't  be  long  in  coming  after  me,  I 
know  that  well ;  and  there 's  a  tough  business  got 
well  over  for  both  of  us  1 " 

"  Hech,"  said  Sandy, 

"  To  every  man 
Death  comes  but  once  a  life  — 

as  my  countryman,  Mr.  Macaulay,  says,  in  thae 
gran'  Roman  ballants  o'  his.  But  for  ye,  Alton, 
laddie,  ye  're  owre  young  to  start  off  in  the  people's 
church  meelitant,  sae  just  bide  wi'  me,  and  the 
barrel  o'  meal  in  the  corner  there  winna  waste,  nae 
mair  than  it  did  wi'  the  widow  o'  Zarephath ;  a  tale 
which  coincides  sae  weel  wi'  the  everlasting  right- 
eousness, that  I'm  at  times  no  inclined  to  consider 
it  a'thegither  mythical." 

But  I,  with  thankfulness  which  vented  itself 
through  my  eyes,  finding  my  lips  alone  too  narrow 
for  it,  refused  to  eat  the  bread  of  idleness. 

"  Aweel,  then,  ye '11  just  mind  the  shop,  and  dust 
the  books  whiles ;  I  'm  getting  auld  and  stiff,  and 
ha'  need  o'  help  i'  the  business." 

"  No,"  I  said ;  "  you   say  so  out   of  kindness ; 


How  Folks  Turn  Chartists       287 

but  if  you  can  afford  no  greater  comforts  than 
these,  you  cannot  afford  to  keep  me  in  addition 
to  yourself." 

"  Hech,  then !  How  do  ye  ken  that  the  auld 
Scot  eats  a'  he  makes?  I  was  na  born  the  spend- 
ing side  o'  Tweed,  my  man.  But  gin  ye  daur,  why 
dinna  ye  pack  up  your  duds,  and  yer  poems  wi' 
them,  and  gang  till  your  cousin  i'  the  university? 
he'll  surely  put  you  in  the  way  o'  publishing  them. 
He 's  bound  to  it  by  blude ;  and  there 's  na  shame 
in  asking  him  to  help  you  towards  reaping  the 
fruits  o'  yer  ain  labors,  A  few  punds  on  a  bond 
for  repayment  when  the  addition  was  sauld,  noo, — 
I  'd  do  that  for  mysel' ;  but  I  'm  thinking  ye  'd 
better  try  to  get  a  list  o'  subscribers.  Dinna 
mind  your  independence ;  it 's  but  spoiling  the 
Egyptians,  ye  ken,  and  the  bit  ballants  will  be 
their  money's  worth,  I  '11  warrant,  and  tell  them  a 
wheen  facts  they  're  no  that  weel  acquentit  wi'. 
Hech?   Johnnie,  my  Chartist?" 

"  Why  not  go  to  my  uncle  ?  " 

"  Puir  sugar-and- spice-selling  bailie  body !  is 
there  aught  in  his  ledger  about  poetry,  and  the 
incommensurable  value  o'  the  products  o'  genius? 
Gang  till  the  young  scholar ;  he  's  a  canny  one, 
too,  and  he  '11  ken  it  to  be  worth  his  while  to  fash 
himsel'  a  wee  anent  it." 

So  I  packed  up  my  little  bundle,  and  lay  awake 
all  that  night  in  a  fever  of  expectation  about  the 
as  yet  unknown  world  of  green  fields  and  woods 
through  which  my  road  to  Cambridge  lay. 


CHAPTER  XI 

"THE  YARD  WHERE  THE  GENTLEMEN   LIVE" 

I  MAY  be  forgiven,  surely,  if  I  run  somewhat 
into  detail  about  this  my  first  visit  to  the 
country. 

I  had,  as  I  have  said  before,  literally  never  been 
farther  afield  than  Fulham  or  Battersea  Rise.  One 
Sunday  evening,  indeed,  I  had  got  as  far  as  Wands- 
worth Common ;  but  it  was  March,  and,  to  my  ex- 
treme disappointment,  the  heath  was  not  in  flower. 

But,  usually,  my  Sundays  had  been  spent  entirely 
in  study ;  which  to  me  was  rest,  so  worn  out  were 
both  my  body  and  my  mind  with  the  incessant 
drudgery  of  my  trade,  and  the  slender  fare  to 
which  I  restricted  myself.  Since  I  had  lodged  with 
Mackaye  certainly  my  food  had  been  better.  I 
had  not  required  to  stint  my  appetite  for  money 
wherewith  to  buy  candles,  ink,  and  pens.  My 
wages,  too,  had  increased  with  my  years,  and  alto- 
gether I  found  myself  gaining  in  strength,  though  I 
had  no  notion  how  much  I  possessed  till  I  set  forth 
on  this  walk  to  Cambridge. 

It  was  a  glorious  morning  at  the  end  of  May ; 
and  when  I  escaped  from  the  pall  of  smoke  which 
hung  over  the  city,  I  found  the  sky  a  sheet  of 
cloudless  blue.  How  I  watched  for  the  ending  of 
the  rows  of  houses,  which  lined  the  road  for  miles 
—  the  great  roots  of  London,  running  far  out  into 


«*  Where  the  Gentlemen  Live"     289 

the  country,  up  which  poured  past  me  an  end- 
less stream  of  food  and  merchandise  and  human 
beings  —  the  sap  of  the  huge  metropoHtan  Hfe- 
tree !  How  each  turn  of  the  road  opened  a  fresh 
line  of  terraces  or  villas,  till  hope  deferred  made 
the  heart  sick,  and  the  country  seemed  —  like  the 
place  where  the  rainbow  touches  the  ground,  or 
the  El  Dorado  of  Raleigh's  Guiana  settler  —  always 
a  little  farther  ofif !  How  between  gaps  in  the 
houses,  right  and  left,  I  caught  tantalizing  glimpses 
of  green  fields,  shut  from  me  by  dull  lines  of  high- 
spiked  palings !  How  I  peeped  through  gates 
and  over  fences  at  trim  lawns  and  gardens,  and 
longed  to  stay,  and  admire,  and  speculate  on  the 
name  of  the  strange  plants  and  gaudy  flowers; 
and  then  hurried  on,  always  expecting  to  find 
something  still  finer  ahead  —  something  really 
worth  stopping  to  look  at  —  till  the  houses  thick- 
ened again  into  a  street,  and  I  found  myself,  to  my 
disappointment,  in  the  midst  of  a  town !  And  then 
more  villas  and  palings ;  and  then  a  village ;  — 
when  would  they  stop,  those  endless  houses? 

At  last  they  did  stop.  Gradually  the  people 
whom  I  passed  began  to  look  more  and  more 
rural,  and  more  toil-worn  and  ill-fed.  The  houses 
ended,  cattle-yards  and  farm-buildings  appeared; 
and  right  and  left,  far  away,  spread  the  low  rolling 
sheet  of  green  meadows  and  cornfields.  Oh,  the 
joy !  The  lawns  with  their  high  elms  and  firs,  the 
green  hedgerows,  the  delicate  hue  and  scent  of 
the  fresh  clover-fields,  the  steep  clay  banks  where 
I  stopped  to  pick  nosegays  of  wild-flowers,  and 
became  again  a  child,  —  and  then  recollected  my 
mother,  and  a  walk  with  her  on  the  river  bank 
towards  the  Red  House  —  and  hurried  on  again, 


290    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

but  could  not  be  unhappy,  while  my  eyes  ranged 
free,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  over  the  chequered 
squares  of  cultivation,  over  glittering  brooks,  and 
hills  quivering  in  the  green  haze,  while  above 
hung  the  skylarks,  pouring  out  their  souls  in 
melody.  And  then,  as  the  sun  grew  hot,  and  the 
larks  dropped  one  by  one  into  the  growing  corn, 
the  new  delight  of  the  blessed  silence !  I  listened 
to  the  stillness ;  for  noise  had  been  my  native  ele- 
ment ;  I  had  become  in  London  quite  unconscious 
of  the  ceaseless  roar  of  the  human  sea,  casting  up 
mire  and  dirt.  And  now,  for  the  first  time  in  my 
life,  the  crushing,  confusing  hubbub  had  flowed 
away,  and  left  my  brain  calm  and  free.  How  I 
felt  at  that  moment  a  capability  of  clear,  bright 
meditation,  which  was  as  new  to  me,  as  I  believe 
it  would  have  been  to  most  Londoners  in  my  posi- 
tion. I  cannot  help  fancying  that  our  unnatural 
atmosphere  of  excitement,  physical  as  well  as 
moral,  is  to  blame  for  very  much  of  the  working- 
man's  restlessness  and  fierceness.  As  it  was,  I  felt 
that  every  step  forward,  every  breath  of  fresh  air, 
gave  me  new  life.  I  had  gone  fifteen  miles  before 
I  recollected  that,  for  the  first  time  for  many 
months,  I  had  not  coughed  since  I  rose. 

So  on  I  went,  down  the  broad,  bright  road, 
which  seemed  to  beckon  me  forward  into  the  un- 
known expanses  of  human  life. 

The  world  was  all  before  me,  where  to  choose, 

and  I  saw  it  both  with  my  eyes  and  my  imagina- 
tion, in  the  temper  of  a  boy  broke  loose  from 
school.  My  heart  kept  holiday.  I  loved  and 
blessed  the  birds  which  flitted  past  me,  and  the 
cows  which  lay  dreaming  on  the  sward.     I  recol- 


"Where  the  Gentlemen  Live**     291 

lect  stopping  with  delight  at  a  picturesque  descent 
into  the  road,  to  watch  a  nursery-garden,  full  of 
roses  of  every  shade,  from  brilliant  yellow  to  dark- 
est purple ;  and  as  I  wondered  at  the  innumerable 
variety  of  beauties  which  man's  art  had  developed 
from  a  few  poor  and  wild  species,  it  seemed  to  me 
the  most  delightful  life  on  earth,  to  follow  in  such 
a  place  the  primeval  trade  of  gardener  Adam;  to 
study  the  secrets  of  the  flower-world,  the  laws  of 
soil  and  climate ;  to  create  new  species,  and  gloat 
over  the  living  fruit  of  one's  own  science  and  per- 
severance. And  then  I  recollected  the  tailor's 
shop,  and  the  Charter,  and  the  starvation,  and  the 
oppression  which  I  had  left  behind,  and  ashamed 
of  my  own  selfishness,  went  hurrying  on  again. 

At  last  I  came  to  a  wood  —  the  first  real  wood 
that  I  had  ever  seen ;  not  a  mere  party  of  stately 
park  trees  growing  out  of  smooth  turf,  but  a  real 
wild  copse ;  tangled  branches  and  gray  stems  fallen 
across  each  other;  deep,  ragged  underwood  of 
shrubs,  and  great  ferns  like  princes'  feathers,  and 
gay  beds  of  flowers,  blue  and  pink  and  yellow, 
with  butterflies  flitting  about  them,  and  trailers 
that  climbed  and  dangled  from  bough  to  bough  — 
a  poor  commonplace  bit  of  copse,  I  daresay,  in  the 
world's  eyes,  but  to  me  a  fairy  wilderness  of  beau- 
tiful forms,  mysterious  gleams  and  shadows,  teem- 
ing with  manifold  life.  As  I  stood  looking  wistfully 
over  the  gate,  alternately  at  the  inviting  vista  of 
the  green-embroidered  path,  and  then  at  the  grim 
notice  over  my  head,  "  All  trespassers  prose- 
cuted," a  young  man  came  up  the  ride,  dressed  in 
velveteen  jacket  and  leather  gaiters,  sufficiently 
bedrabbled  with  mud.  A  fishing-rod  and  basket 
bespoke  him  some  sort  of  destroyer,  and  I  saw  in 


292     Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

a  moment  that  he  was  "  a  gentleman."  After  all, 
there  is  such  a  thing  as  looking  like  a  gentleman. 
There  are  men  whose  class  no  dirt  or  rags  could 
hide,  any  more  than  they  could  Ulysses.  I  have 
seen  such  men  in  plenty  among  workmen,  too; 
but,  on  the  whole,  the  gentlemen  —  by  whom  I  do 
not  mean  just  now  the  rich  —  have  the  superiority 
in  that  point.  But  not,  please  God,  forever.  Give 
us  the  same  air,  water,  exercise,  education,  good 
society,  and  you  will  see  whether  this  "  haggard- 
ness,"  this  "  coarseness,"  etc.  etc.,  for  the  list  is  too 
long  to  specify,  be  an  accident,  or  a  property,  of 
the  man  of  the  people. 

"  May  I  go  into  your  wood  ?  "  asked  I  at  a  ven- 
ture, curiosity  conquering  pride. 

"  Well !  what  do  you  want  there,  my  good 
fellow?" 

"  To  see  what  a  wood  is  like  —  I  never  was  in 
one  in  my  life." 

"Humph!  well  —  you  may  go  in  for  that,  and 
welcome.  Never  was  in  a  wood  in  his  life  -  poor 
devil !  " 

•'  Thank  you  1  "  quoth  I.  And  I  slowly  clam- 
bered over  the  gate.  He  put  his  hand  carelessly 
on  the  top  rail,  vaulted  over  it  like  a  deer,  and  then 
turned  to  stare  at  me. 

"  Hullo !  I  say  —  I  forgot  —  don't  go  far  in, 
or  ramble  up  and  down,  or  you'll  disturb  the 
pheasants." 

i  thanked  him  again  for  what  license  he  had 
given  me  —  went  in,  and  lay  down  by  the  path- 
side. 

Here,  I  suppose,  by  the  rules  of  modern  art,  a 
picturesque  description  of  the  said  wood  should 
follow ;  but  I  am  the  most  incompetent  person  in 


"Where  the  Gentlemen  Live"     293 

the  world  to  write  it.  And,  indeed,  the  whole 
scene  was  so  novel  to  me,  that  I  had  no  time  to 
analyze ;  I  could  only  enjoy.  I  recollect  lying  on 
my  face  and  fingering  over  the  delicately  cut 
leaves  of  the  weeds,  and  wondering  whether  the 
people  who  lived  in  the  country  thought  them  as 
wonderful  and  beautiful  as  I  did ;  —  and  then  I 
recollected  the  thousands  whom  I  had  left  behind, 
who,  like  me,  had  never  seen  the  green  face  of 
God's  earth ;  and  the  answer  of  the  poor  gamin  in 
St.  Giles's,  who,  when  he  was  asked  what  the 
country  was,  answered,  "  The  yard  where  the  gen- 
tlemen live  when  they  go  out  of  town  "  —  significant 
that,  and  pathetic ;  —  then  I  wondered  whether 
the  time  would  ever  come  when  society  would  be 
far  enough  advanced  to  open  to  even  such  as  he  a 
glimpse,  if  it  were  only  once  a  year,  of  the  fresh, 
clean  face  of  God's  earth ;  —  and  then  I  became 
aware  of  a  soft  mysterious  hum,  above  and  around 
me,  and  turned  on  my  back  to  look  whence  it  pro- 
ceeded, and  saw  the  leaves  gold — green  and  trans- 
parent in  the  sunlight,  quivering  against  the  deep 
heights  of  the  empyrean  blue ;  and  hanging  in  the 
sunbeams  that  pierced  the  foliage,  a  thousand  in- 
sects, like  specks  of  fire,  that  poised  themselves 
motionless  on  thrilling  wings,  and  darted  away, 
and  returned  to  hang  motionless  again ;  —  and  I 
wondered  what  they  ate,  and  whether  they  thought 
about  anything,  and  whether  they  enjoyed  the  sun- 
light;—  and  then  that  brought  back  to  me  the 
times  when  I  used  to  lie  dreaming  in  my  crib  on 
summer  mornings,  and  watched  the  flies  dancing 
reels  between  me  and  the  ceiling ;  —  and  that 
again  brought  the  thought  of  Susan  and  my 
mother ;  and  I  prayed  for  them  —  not  sadly  —  I 


294    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

could  not  be  sad  there ;  —  and  prayed  that  we 
might  all  meet  again  some  day  and  live  happily 
together;  perhaps  in  the  country,  where  I  could 
write  poems  in  peace;  and  then,  by  degrees,  my 
sentences  and  thoughts  grew  incoherent,  and  in 
happy,  stupid  animal  comfort,  I  faded  away  into  a 
heavy  sleep,  which  lasted  an  hour  or  more,  till  I 
was  awakened  by  the  efforts  of  certain  enterprising 
great  black  and  red  ants,  who  were  trying  to  found 
a  small  Algeria  in  my  left  ear. 

I  rose  and  left  the  wood,  and  a  gate  or  two  on, 
stopped  again  to  look  at  the  same  sportsman  fish- 
ing in  a  clear  silver  brook.  I  could  not  help 
admiring  with  a  sort  of  childish  wonder  the  grace- 
ful and  practised  aim  with  which  he  directed  his 
tiny  bait,  and  called  up  mysterious  dimples  on  the 
surface,  which  in  a  moment  increased  to  splashings 
and  strugglings  of  a  great  fish,  compelled,  as  if  by 
some  invisible  spell,  to  follow  the  point  of  the 
bending  rod  till  he  lay  panting  on  the  bank.  I 
confess,  in  spite  of  all  my  class  prejudices  against 
"game-preserving  aristocrats,"  I  almost  envied  the 
man ;  at  least  I  seemed  to  understand  a  little  of  the 
universally  attractive  charms  which  those  same 
outwardly  contemptible  field  sports  possess;  the 
fresh  air,  fresh  fields  and  copses,  fresh  running 
brooks,  the  exercise,  the  simple  freedom,  the  ex- 
citement just  sufficient  to  keep  alive  expectation 
and  banish  thought.  —  After  all,  his  trout  produced 
much  the  same  mood  in  him  as  my  turnpike-road 
did  in  me.  And  perhaps  the  man  did  not  go  fish- 
ing or  shooting  every  day.  The  laws  prevented 
him  from  shooting,  at  least,  all  the  year  round ;  so 
sometimes  there  might  be  something  in  which  he 
made  himself  of  use.    An  honest,  jolly  face  too  he 


"  Where  the  Gentlemen  Live  **    295 

had  —  not  without  thought  and  strength  in  it. 
"Well,  it  is  a  strange  world,"  said  I  to  myself, 
"where  those  who  can,  need  not;  and  those  who 
cannot,  must !  " 

Then  he  came  close  to  the  gate,  and  I  left  it  just 
in  time  to  see  a  little  group  arrive  at  it  —  a  woman 
of  his  own  rank,  young,  pretty,  and  simply  dressed, 
with  a  little  boy,  decked  out  as  a  Highlander,  on 
a  shaggy  Shetland  pony,  which  his  mother,  as  I 
guessed  her  to  be,  was  leading.  And  then  they  all 
met,  and  the  little  fellow  held  up  a  basket  of  pro- 
visions to  his  father,  who  kissed  him  across  the 
gate,  and  hung  his  creel  of  fish  behind  the  saddle, 
and  patted  the  mother's  shoulder,  as  she  looked  up 
lovingly  and  laughingly  in  his  face.     Altogether, 

a  joyous,  genial  bit  of nature?    Yes,  nature. 

Shall  I  grudge  simple  happiness  to  the  few,  be- 
cause it  is  as  yet,  alas !  impossible  for  the  many. 

And  yet  the  whole  scene  contrasted  so  painfully 
with  me  —  with  my  past,  my  future,  my  dreams, 
my  wrongs,  that  I  could  not  look  at  it;  and  with 
a  swelling  heart  I  moved  on  —  all  the  faster  be- 
cause I  saw  they  were  looking  at  me  and  talking 
of  me,  and  the  fair  wife  threw  after  me  a  wistful, 
pitying  glance,  which  I  was  afraid  might  develop 
itself  into  some  offer  of  food  or  money — a  thing 
which  I  scorned  and  dreaded,  because  it  involved 
the  trouble  of  a  refusal. 

Then,  as  I  walked  on  once  more,  my  heart 
smote  me.  If  they  had  wished  to  be  kind,  why 
had  I  grudged  them  the  opportunity  of  a  good 
deed?  At  all  events,  I  might  have  asked  their 
advice.  In  a  natural  and  harmonious  state,  when 
society  really  means  brotherhood,  a  man  could 
go  up  to  any  stranger,  to  give  and  receive,  U  not 


296     Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet. 

succor,  yet  still  experience  and  wisdom :  and  was 
I  not  bound  to  tell  them  what  I  knew,  was  sure 
/that  they  did  not  know?  Was  I  not  bound  to 
j  preach  the  cause  of  my  class  wherever  I  went  ? 
Here  were  kindly  people  who,  for  aught  I  knew, 
would  do  right  the  moment  they  were  told  where 
it  was  wanted ;  if  there  was  an  accursed  artificial 
gulf  between  their  class  and  mine,  had  I  any  right 
to  complain  of  it,  as  long  as  I  helped  to  keep  it  up 
by  my  false  pride  and  surly  reserve?  No!  I 
would  speak  my  mind  henceforth  —  I  would  testify 
of  what  I  saw  and  knew  of  the  wrongs,  if  not  of 
the  rights  of  the  artisan,  before  whomsoever  I 
might  come.  Oh !  valiant  conclusion  of  half  an 
hour's  self-tormenting  scruples !  How  I  kept  it, 
remains  to  be  shown. 

I  really  fear  that  I  am  getting  somewhat  trivial 
and  prolix;  but  there  was  hardly  an  incident  in 
my  two  days'  tramp  which  did  not  give  me  some 
small  fresh  insight  into  the  terra  incognita  of  the 
country;  and  there  may  be  those  among  my 
readers,  to  whom  it  is  not  uninteresting  to  look, 
for  once,  at  even  the  smallest  objects  with  a  cock- 
ney workman's  eyes. 

Well,  I  trudged  on  —  and  the  shadows  length- 
ened, and  I  grew  footsore  and  tired;  but  every 
step  was  new,  and  won  me  forward  with  fresh 
excitement  for  my  curiosity. 

At  one  village  I  met  a  crowd  of  little,  noisy, 
happy  boys  and  girls  pouring  out  of  a  smart  new 
Gothic  schoolhouse.  I  could  not  resist  the  temp- 
tation of  snatching  a  glance  through  the  open 
door.  I  saw  on  the  walls  maps,  music,  charts,  and 
pictures.  How  I  envied  those  little  urchins!  A 
solemn,  sturdy  elder,  in  a  white  cravat,  evidently 


**  Where  the  Gentlemen  Live  *'    297 

the  parson  of  the  parish,  was  patting  children's 
heads,  taking  down  names,  and  laying  down  the 
law  to  a  shrewd,  prim  young  schoolmaster. 

Presently,  as  I  went  up  the  village,  the  clergy- 
man strode  past  me,  brandishing  a  thick  stick  and 
humming  a  chant,  and  joined  a  motherly-looking 
wife,  who,  basket  on  arm,  was  popping  in  and  out 
of  the  cottages,  looking  alternately  serious  and 
funny,  cross  and  kindly  —  I  suppose,  according  to 
the  sayings  and  doings  of  the  folks  within. 

"  Come,"  I  thought,  "  this  looks  like  work  at 
least."  And  as  I  went  out  of  the  village,  I  accosted 
a  laborer,  who  was  trudging  my  way,  fork  on 
shoulder,  and  asked  him  if  that  was  the  parson 
and  his  wife? 

I  was  surprised  at  the  difficulty  with  which  I  got 
into  conversation  with  the  man;  at  his  stupidity, 
feigned  or  real,  I  could  not  tell  which;  at  the 
dogged,  suspicious  reserve  with  which  he  eyed 
me,  and  asked  me  whether  I  was  "  one  of  they 
parts?"  and  whether  I  was  a  Londoner,  and  what 
I  wanted  on  the  tramp,  and  so  on,  before  he 
seemed  to  think  it  safe  to  answer  a  single  ques- 
tion. He  seemed,  like  almost  every  laborer  I  ever 
met,  to  have  something  on  his  mind ;  to  live  in  a 
state  of  perpetual  fear  and  concealment.  When, 
however,  he  found  I  was  both  a  cockney  and  a 
passer-by,  he  began  to  grow  more  communicative, 
and  told  me,  "  Ees  —  that  were  the  parson,  sure 
enough." 

"  And  what  sort  of  a  man  was  he?  " 

"Oh!  he  was  a  main  kind  man  to  the  poor; 
leastwise,  in  the  matter  of  visiting  'em,  and  praying 
with  'em,  and  getting  'em  to  put  into  clubs,  and 
such  like ;  and  his  lady  too.     Not  that  there  was 


298     Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

any  fault  to  find  with  the  man  about  money— 
but  'twas  n't  to  be  expected  of  him." 

"  Why,  was  he  not  rich? " 

"  Oh,  rich  enough  to  the  likes  of  us.  But 
his  own  tithes  here  aren't  more  than  a  thirty 
pounds  we  hears  tell ;  and  if  he  had  n't  summat 
of  his  own,  he  could  n't  do  not  nothing  by  the 
poor ;  as  it  be,  he  pays  for  that  ere  school  all  to 
his  own  pocket,  next  part.  All  the  rest  o*  the 
tithes  goes  to  some  great  lord  or  other  —  they  say 
he  draws  a  matter  of  a  thousand  a  year  out  of  the 
parish,  and  not  a  foot  ever  he  sot  into  it ;  and  that 's 
the  way  with  a  main  lot  o'  parishes,  up  and  down." 

This  was  quite  a  new  fact  to  me.  "  And  what 
sort  of  folks  were  the  parsons  all  round?  " 

*'  Oh,  some  of  all  sorts,  good  and  bad.  About 
six  and  half  a  dozen.  There  's  two  or  three  nice 
young  gentlemen  come'd  round  here  now,  but 
they're  all  what's-'em-arcall  it?  —  some  sort  o' 
papishes ;  —  leastwise,  they  has  prayers  in  the 
church  every  day,  and  does  n't  preach  the  Gospel, 
nohow,  I  hears  by  my  wife,  and  she  knows  all 
about  it,  along  of  going  to  meeting.  Then  there 's 
one  over  there-away,  as  had  to  leave  his  living  — 
he  knows  why.  He  got  safe  over  seas.  If  he  had 
been  a  poor  man,  he  'd  been  in  .  .  .  gaol,  safe 
enough,  and  soon  enough.  Then  there 's  two  or 
three  as  goes  a-hunting  —  not  as  I  sees  no  harm  in 
that ;  if  a  man 's  got  plenty  of  money,  he  ought  to 
enjoy  himself,  in  course :  but  still  he  can't  be 
here  and  there  too,  to  once.  Then  there 's  two  or 
three  as  is  bad  in  their  healths,  or  thinks  them- 
selves so  —  or  else  has  livings  summer'  else ;  and 
they  lives  summer'  or  others,  and  has  curates. 
Main   busy  chaps  is   they  curates,  always,   and 


"  Where  the  Gentlemen  Live  "    299 

wonderful  hands  to  preach ;  but  then,  just  as  they 
gets  a  little  knowing  like  at  it,  and  folks  gets  to 
like  '  em,  and  run  to  hear  'em,  off  they  pops  to 
summat  better ;  and  in  course  they  're  right  to  do 
so;  and  so  we  country-folks  get  naught  but  the 
young  colts,  afore  they  're  broke,  you  see." 

"  And  what  sort  of  a  preacher  was  his  parson?  " 

'*  Oh,  he  preached  very  good  Gospel,  not  that 
he  went  very  often  himself,  acause  he  could  n't 
make  out  the  meaning  of  it;  he  preached  too 
high,  like.  But  his  wife  said  it  was  uncommon 
good  Gospel ;  and  surely  when  he  come  to  visit  a 
body,  and  talked  plain  English  like,  not  sermon- 
ways,  he  was  a  very  pleasant  man  to  hear,  and  his 
lady  uncommon  kind  to  nurse  folk.  They  sot  up 
with  me  and  my  wife,  they  two  did,  two  whole 
nights,  when  we  was  in  the  fever,  afore  the  officer 
could  get  us  a  nurse." 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "  there  are  some  good  parsons 
left." 

"  Oh,  yes ;  there 's  some  very  good  ones  —  each 
one  after  his  own  way ;  and  there  'd  be  more  on 
'em,  if  they  did  but  know  how  bad  we  laborers 
was  off.  Why,  bless  ye,  I  mind  when  they  was 
very  different.  A  new  parson  is  a  mighty  change 
for  the  better,  mostwise,  we  finds.  Why,  when  I 
was  a  boy,  we  never  had  no  schooling.  And  now 
mine  goes  and  learns  singing,  and  jobrafy,  and 
ciphering,  and  sich  like.  Not  that  I  sees  no  good 
in  it.  We  was  a  sight  better  off  in  the  old  times, 
when  there  were  n't  no  schooling.  Schooling 
harn't  made  wages  rise,  nor  preaching  neither." 

"  But  surely,"  I  said,  "  all  this  religious  knowl- 
edge ought  to  give  you  comfort,  even  if  you  are 
badly  off" 


300     Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

*'  Oh !  religion 's  all  very  well  for  them  as  has 
time  for  it-  and  a  very  good  thing  —  we  ought  all 
to  mind  our  latter  end.  But  I  don't  see  how  a 
man  can  hear  sermons  with  an  empty  belly ;  and 
there 's  so  much  to  fret  a  man,  now,  and  he  's  so 
cruel  tired  coming  home  o'  nights,  he  can't  nowise 
go  to  pray  a  lot,  as  gentlefolks  does." 

"  But  are  you  so  ill  off  ?  " 

"  Oh !  he  'd  had  a  good  harvesting  enough ;  but 
then  he  owed  all  that  for  he's  rent ;  and  he's  club 
money  was  n't  paid  up,  nor  he's  shop.  And  then, 
with  he's  wages  "  —  (I  forget  the  sum  —  under  ten 
shillings)  — "  how  could  a  man  keep  his  mouth 
full,  when  he  had  five  children !  And  then, 
folks  is  so  unmarciful  —  I  '11  just  tell  you  what 
they  says  to  me,  now,  last  time  I  was  over  at  the 
board " 

And  thereon  he  rambled  off  into  a  long  jumble  of 
medical  officers,  and  relieving-officers,  and  Farmer 
This,  and  Squire  That,  which  indicated  a  mind  as 
ill-educated  as  discontented.  He  cursed  or  rather 
grumbled  at  —  for  he  had  not  spirit,  it  seemed,  to 
curse  anything  —  the  new  poor  law ;  because  it 
"  ate  up  the  poor,  flesh  and  bone  "  —  bemoaned  the 
"  old  law  "  when  "  the  vestry  was  forced  to  give 
a  man  whatsomdever  he  axed  for,  and  if  they 
did  n't,  he  'd  go  to  the  magistrates  and  make  'em, 
and  so  sure  as  a  man  got  a  fresh  child,  he  went  and 
got  another  loaf  allowed  him  next  vestry,  like  a 
Christian;"  —  and  so  turned  through  a  gate,  and 
set  to  work  forking  up  some  weeds  on  a  fallow, 
leaving  me  many  new  thoughts  to  digest. 

That  night,  I  got  to  some  town  or  other,  and 
there  found  a  night's  lodging,  good  enough  for  a 
walking  traveller. 


CHAPTER  XII 

CAMBRIDGE 

WHEN  I  started  again  next  morning,  I  found 
myself  so  stiff  and  footsore,  that  I  could 
hardly  put  one  leg  before  the  other,  much  less 
walk  upright.  I  was  really  quite  in  despair,  before 
the  end  of  the  first  mile  ;  for  I  had  no  money  to 
pay  for  a  lift  on  the  coach,  and  I  knew,  besides, 
that  they  would  not  be  passing  that  way  for  several 
hours  to  come.  So,  with  aching  back  and  knees,  I 
made  shift  to  limp  along,  bent  almost  double,  and 
ended  by  sitting  down  for  a  couple  of  hours,  and 
looking  about  me,  in  a  country  which  would  have 
seemed  dreary  enough,  I  suppose,  to  any  one  but 
a  freshly  liberated  captive,  such  as  I  was.  At  last 
I  got  up  and  limped  on,  stififer  than  ever  from  my 
rest,  when  a  gig  drove  past  me  towards  Cambridge, 
drawn  by  a  stout  cob,  and  driven  by  a  tall,  fat, 
jolly-looking  farmer,  who  stared  at  me  as  he  passed, 
went  on,  looked  back,  slackened  his  pace,  looked 
back  again,  and  at  last  came  to  a  dead  stop,  and 
hailed  me  in  a  broad  nasal  dialect  — 

"  Whor  be  ganging,  then,  boh?  " 

"  To  Cambridge." 

"  Thew  *st  na  git  there  that  gate.  Be'est  thee 
honest  man  ?  " 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  I,  somewhat  indignantly. 


302    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

"What's  trade?" 

"  A  tailor,"  I  said. 

"  Tailor !  —  guide  us  !  Tailor  a-tramp?  Bar  n't 
accoostomed  to  tramp,  then?  " 

"  I  never  was  out  of  London  before,"  said  I, 
meekly,  —  for  I  was  too  worn-out  to  be  cross  — 
lengthy  and  impertinent  as  this  cross-examination 
seemed. 

"  Oi  'II  gie  thee  lift ;  dee  yow  joomp  in.  Gae  on, 
powney !   Tailor,  then  !  Oh  !  ah  !  tailor,  saith  he." 

I  obeyed  most  thankfully,  and  sat  crouched 
together,  looking  up  out  of  the  corner  of  my  eyes 
at  the  huge  tower  o  broadcloth  by  my  side,  and 
comparing  the  two  red  shoulders  of  mutton  which 
held  the  reins  with  my  own  wasted,  white,  woman- 
like fingers. 

I  found  the  old  gentleman  most  inquisitive.  He 
drew  out  of  me  all  my  story — questioned  me 
about  the  way  "  Lunnon  folks  "  lived  and  whether 
they  got  ony  shooting  or  "  pattening"  — whereby 
I  found  he  meant  skating  —  and  broke  in,  every 
now  and  then,  with  ejaculations  of  childish  wonder, 
and  clumsy  sympathy,  on  my  accounts  of  London 
labor  and  London  misery. 

"  Oh,  father,  father !  —  I  wonders  they  bears  it. 
Us'n  in  the  fens  would  n't  stand  that  likes.  They  'd 
riot,  and  riot,  and  riot,  and  tak'  oot  the  dook-gunes 
to  un  —  they  would,  as  they  did  five-and-twenty 
year  agone.  Never  to  goo  ayond  the  housen !  — 
never  to  goo  ayond  the  housen  !  Kill  me  in  a  three 
months,  that  would  —  bor',  then  !  " 

"  Are  you  a  farmer  ?  "  I  asked,  at  last,  thinking 
that  my  turn  for  questioning  was  come. 

"  I  bean't  varmer ;  I  be  yooman  born.  Never 
paid  rent  in  moy  life,  nor  never  wool.     I  farms  my 


Cambridge  303 

own  land,  and  my  vathers  avore  me,  this  ever  so 
mony  hoondred  year.  I  've  got  the  swoord  of  'em 
to  home,  and  the  helmet  that  they  fut  with  into 
the  wars,  then  when  they  chopped  off  the  king's 
head  — what  was  the  name  of  um?  " 

"Charles  the  First?" 

"  Ees  —  that 's  the  booy.  We  was  Parliament 
side  —  true  Britons  all  we  was,  down  into  the  fens, 
and  Oliver  Cromwell,  as  dug  Botsham  lode,  to  the 
head  of  us.  Yow  coom  down  to  MethoU,  and  I  '11 
shaw  ye  a  country.  I  '11  shaw  'ee  some'at  like 
bullocks  to  call,  and  some'at  like  a  field  o'  beans 
—  I  wool  —  none  o'  this  here  darned  ups  and 
downs  o'  hills"  (though  the  country  through  which 
we  drove  was  flat  enough,  I  should  have  thought, 
to  please  any  one),  "  to  shake  a  body's  victuals  out 
of  his  inwards  —  all  so  flat  as  a  barn's  floor,  for 
vorty  mile  on  end  —  there  's  the  country  to  live 
in !  — ^  and  vour  sons  —  or  was  vour  on  'em  —  every 
one  on  'em  fifteen  stone  in  his  shoes,  to  patten 
again'  any  man  from  Whit'sea  Mere  to  Denver 
Sluice,  for  twenty  pounds  o'  gold ;  and  there 's  the 
money  to  lay  down,  and  let  the  man  as  dare  cover 
it,  down  with  his  money,  and  on  wi'  his  pattens, 
thirteen-inch  runners,  down  the  wind,  again'  either 
a  one  o'  the  bairns !  " 

And  he  jingled  in  his  pockets  a  heavy  bag  of 
gold,  and  winked,  and  chuckled,  and  then  suddenly 
checking  himself,  repeated  in  a  sad,  dubious  tone, 
two  or  three  times,  "  Vour  on  'em  there  was  — 
vour  on  'em  there  was ;  "  and  relieved  his  feelingfs 
by  springing  the  pony  into  a  canter  till  he  came  to 
a  public-house,  where  he  pulled  up,  called  for  a 
pot  of  hot  ale,  and  insisted  on  treating  me.  I 
assured  him  that  I  never  drank  fermented  liquors. 


304    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

"Aw?  Eh?  How  can  yow  do  that  then ?  Die 
o*  cowd  i'  the  fen,  that  gate,  yow  would.  Lx)ve  ye 
then !  they  as  dinnot  tak'  spirits  down  thor,  tak* 
their  pennord  o'  elevation,  then  —  women-folk 
especial." 

"What's  elevation?" 

"  Oh !  ho  !  ho !  —  yow  goo  into  druggist's  shop 
o*  market-day,  into  Cambridge,  and  you  '11  see  the 
little  boxes,  doozens  and  doozens,  a'  ready  on  the 
counter;  and  never  a  ven-man's  wife  goo  by,  but 
what  calls  in  for  her  pennord  o'  elevation,  to  last 
her  out  the  week.  Oh !  ho !  ho !  Well,  it  keeps 
women-folk  quiet,  it  do;  and  it's  mortal  good 
agin  ago  pains." 

"But  what  is  it?" 

"  Opium,  bor'  alive,  opium !  " 

"But  doesn't  it  ruin  their  health?  I  should 
think  it  the  very  worst  sort  of  drunkenness." 

"  Ow,  well,  yow  moi  soy  that  —  mak'th  'em  cruel 
thin  then,  it  do ;  but  what  can  bodies  do  i'  th'  ago  ? 
But  it's  a  bad  thing,  it  is.  Harken  yow  to  me. 
Didst  ever  know  one  called  Porter,  to  yowr  trade  ?  " 

I  thought  a  little,  and  recollected  a  man  of  that 
name,  who  had  worked  with  us  a  year  or  two 
before  —  a  great  friend  of  a  certain  scatter-brained 
Irish  lad,  brother  of  Crossthwaite's  wife. 

"  Well,  I  did  once,  but  I  have  lost  sight  of  him 
twelve  months,  or  more." 

The  old  man  faced  sharp  round  on  me,  swinging 
the  little  gig  almost  over,  and  then  twisted  himself 
back  again,  and  put  on  a  true  farmer-like  look  of 
dogged,  stolid  reserve.  We  rolled  on  a  few  min- 
utes in  silence. 

"  Dee  yow  consider,  now,  that  a  mon  mought 
be  lost,  like,  into  Lunnon  ?  " 


Cambridge  305 

«« How  lost?" 

"  Why,  yow  told  o'  they  sweaters  —  dee  yow 
think  a  mon  might  get  in  wi'  one  o'  they,  and  they 
that  mought  be  looking  for  un  not  to  vind  un?" 

"  I  do,  indeed.  There  was  a  friend  of  that  man 
Porter  got  turned  away  from  our  shop,  because 
he  would  n't  pay  some  tyrannical  fine  for  being 
saucy,  as  they  called  it,  to  the  shopman ;  and  he 
went  to  a  sweater's  —  and  then  to  another ;  and 
his  friends  have  been  tracking  him  up  and  down 
this  six  months,  and  can  hear  no  news  of  him." 

"  Aw !  guide  us  1  And  what'n,  think  yow,  be 
gone  wi'  un?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  he  has  got  into  one  of  those  dens, 
and  has  pawned  his  clothes,  as  dozens  of  them  do, 
for  food,  and  so  can't  get  out." 

"  Pawned  his  clothes  for  victuals !  To  think  o* 
that,  noo !  But  if  he  had  work,  can't  he  get 
victuals?" 

*'  Oh  ! "  I  said,  "  there 's  many  a  man  who,  after 
working  seventeen  or  eighteen  hours  a  day,  Sun- 
days and  all,  without  even  time  to  take  off  his 
clothes,  finds  himself  brought  in  in  debt  to  his 
tyrant  at  the  week's  end.  And  if  he  gets  no  work, 
the  villain  won't  let  him  leave  the  house  ;  he  has 
to  stay  there  starving,  on  the  chance  of  an  hour's 
job.  I  tell  you,  I  've  known  half  a  dozen  men 
imprisoned  in  that  way,  in  a  little  dungeon  of  a 
garret,  where  they  had  hardly  room  to  stand 
upright,  and  only  just  space  to  sit  and  work 
between  their  beds,  without  breathing  the  fresh 
air,  or  seeing  God's  sun,  for  months  together,  with 
no  victuals  but  a  few  slices  of  bread-and-butter, 
and  a  little  slop  of  tea,  twice  a  day,  till  they  were 
starved  to  the  very  bone." 

Vol.  Ill— 14 


3o6    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

"  Oh,  my  God  !  my  God  !  "  said  the  old  man,  in 
a  voice  which  had  a  deeper  tone  of  feeling  than 
mere  sympathy  with  others'  sorrow  was  likely  to 
have  produced.  There  was  evidently  something 
behind  all  these  inquiries  of  his.  I  longed  to  ask 
him  if  his  name,  too,  was  not  Porter. 

"Aw  yow  knawn  Billy  Porter?  What  was  a 
like?  Tell  me,  now  —  what  was  a  like,  in  the 
Lord's  name!  what  was  a  like  unto?" 

"  Very  tall  and  bony,"  I  answered. 

*'  Ah !  sax  feet,  and  more  ?  and  a  yard  across  ? 

—  but  a  was  starved,  a  was  a'  thin,  though,  maybe, 
when  yow  sawn  un  ?  —  and  beautiful  fine  hair, 
had  n't  a,  like  a  lass's  ?  " 

"  The  man  I  knew  had  red  hair,"  quoth  I. 

"  Ow,  ay,  an'  that  it  wor,  red  as  a  rising  sun,  and 
the  curls  of  un  like  gowlden  guineas !  And  thou 
knew'st  Billy  Porter !     To  think  o'  that,  noo."  — 

Another  long  silence. 

"  Could  you  find  un,  dee  yow  think,  noo,  into 
Lunnon?     Suppose,  now,  there  was  a  mon  'ud  gie 

—  maybe  five   pund  —  ten  pund  —  twenty  pund, 

by twenty  pund  down,  for  to  ha'  him  brocht 

home  safe  and  soun'  —  Could  yow  do  *t,  bor'  ?  I 
zay,  could  yow  do't?" 

"  I  could  do  it  as  well  without  the  money  as 
with,  if  I  could  do  it  at  all.  But  have  you  no 
guess  as  to  where  he  is?" 

He  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"  We — that 's  to  zay,  they  as  wants  un  —  hav*  n't 
heerd  tell  of  un  vor  this  three  year  —  three  year 

coom   Whitsuntide  as    ever  was "     And  he 

wiped  his  eyes  with  his  cuff. 

"  If  you  will  tell  me  all  about  him,  and  where  he 
was  last  heard  of,  I  will  do  all  I  can  to  find  him." 


Cambridge  307 

"  Will  ye,  noo?  will  ye?  The  Lord  bless  ye  for 
zaying  that."  And  he  grasped  my  hand  in  his 
great  iron  fist,  and  fairly  burst  out  crying. 

"Was  he  a  relation  of  yours?"  I  asked  gently. 

"  My  bairn  —  my  bairn  —  my  eldest  bairn.  Din- 
not  yow  ax  me  no  moor  —  dinnot  then,  bor'.  Gie 
on,  yow  powney,  and  yow  goo  leuk  vor  un." 

Another  long  silence. 

"  I  've  a  been  to  Lunnon,  looking  vor  un." 

Another  silence. 

"  I  went  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  day  and 
night,  day  and  night,  to  all  pot-houses  as  I  could 
zee ;  vor,  says  I,  he  was  a'ways  a  main  chap  to 
drink,  he  was.  Oh,  deery  me !  and  I  never  cot 
zight  on  un  —  and  noo  I  be  most  spent,  I  be." 

And  he  pulled  up  at  another  public-house,  and 
tried  this  time  a  glass  of  brandy.  He  stopped,  I 
really  think,  at  every  inn  between  that  place  and 
Cambridge,  and  at  each  tried  some  fresh  com- 
pound ;  but  his  head  seemed,  from  habit,  utterly 
fire-proof. 

At  last,  we  neared  Cambridge,  and  began  to 
pass  groups  of  gay  horsemen,  and  then  those 
strange  caps  and  gowns  —  ugly  and  unmeaning 
remnant  of  obsolete  fashion. 

The  old  man  insisted  on  driving  me  up  to  the 

gate  of College,  and  there  dropped  me,  after 

I  had  given  him  my  address,  entreating  me  to 
"vind  the  bairn,  and  coom  to  zee  him  down  to 
Metholl.  But  dinnot  go  ax  for  Farmer  Porter  — 
they's  all  Porters  there  away.  You  ax  for 
Wooden-house  Bob  —  that 's  me ;  and  if  I  bar  n't 
to  home,  ax  for  Mucky  Billy  —  that 's  my  brawther 
—  we  're  all  gotten  our  names  down  to  ven ;  and  if 
he  bar  n't  to  home,  yow  ax  for  Frog-hall  —  that 's 


3o8     Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

where  my  sister  do  live ;  and  they  '11  all  veed  ye, 
and  lodge  ye,  and  welcome  come.  We  be  all  like 
one,  doon  in  the  ven ;  and  do  ye,  do  ye,  vind  my 
bairn !  "  And  he  trundled  on,  down  the  narrow 
street. 

I  was  soon  directed,  by  various  smart-looking 
servants,  to  my  cousin's  rooms:  and  after  a  few 
mistakes,  and  wandering  up  and  down  noble 
courts  and  cloisters,  swarming  with  gay  young 
men,  whose  jaunty  air  and  dress  seemed  strangely 
out  of  keeping  with  the  stern  antique  solemnity  of 
the  Gothic  buildings  around,  I  espied  my  cousin's 
name  over  a  door;  and,  uncertain  how  he  might 
receive  me,  I  gave  a  gentle,  half-apologetic  knock, 
which  was  answered  by  a  loud  "  Come  in !  "  and  I 
entered  on  a  scene  even  more  incongruous  than 
anything  I  had  seen  outside. 

"  If  we  can  only  keep  away  from  Jesus  as  far  as 
the  corner,  I  don't  care." 

"  If  we  don't  run  into  that  first  Trinity  before 
the  willows,  I  shall  care  with  a  vengeance." 

•'  If  we  don't  it 's  a  pity,"  said  my  cousin. 
"  Wadham  ran  up  by  the  side  of  that  first  Trinity 
yesterday,  and  he  said  that  they  were  as  well 
gruelled  as  so  many  posters,  before  they  got  to 
the  stile." 

This  unintelligible,  and  to  my  inexperienced 
ears,  irreverent  conversation,  proceeded  from  half 
a  dozen  powerful  young  men,  in  low-crowned 
sailors'  hats  and  flannel  trousers,  some  in  striped 
jerseys,  some  in  shooting-jackets,  some  smoking 
cigars,  some  beating  up  eggs  in  sherry;  while 
my  cousin,  dressed  like  a  fancy  waterman,  sat 
on  the  back  of  a  sofa,  puffing  away  at  a  huge 
meerschaum. 


Cambridge  309 

"  Alton !  why,  what  wind  on  earth  has  blown 
you  here?" 

By  the  tone,  the  words  seemed  rather  an  inquiry 
as  to  what  wind  would  be  kind  enough  to  blow  me 
back  again.  But  he  recovered  his  self-possession 
in  a  moment. 

"  Delighted  to  see  you  !  Where  's  your  port- 
manteau? Oh  — left  it  at  the  Bull!  Ah!  I  see. 
Very  well,  we  '11  send  the  gyp  for  it  in  a  minute, 
and  order  some  luncheon.  We  're  just  going  down 
to  the  boat-race.  Sorry  I  can't  stop,  but  we  shall 
all  be  fined  —  not  a  moment  to  lose.  I  '11  send 
you  in  luncheon  as  I  go  through  the  butteries  ; 
then,  perhaps,  you  'd  like  to  come  down  and  see 
the  race.  Ask  the  gyp  to  tell  you  the  way.  Now, 
then,  follow  your  noble  captain,  gentlemen  —  to 
glory  and  a  supper."  And  he  bustled  out  with 
his  crew. 

While  I  was  staring  about  the  room,  at  the 
jumble  of  Greek  books,  boxing-gloves,  and  lus- 
cious prints  of  pretty  women,  a  shrewd-faced,  smart 
man  entered,  much  better  dressed  than  myself. 

"What  would  you  like,  sir?  Ox-tail  soup, 
sir,  or  gravy-soup,  sir?  Stilton  cheese,  sir,  or 
Cheshire,  sir?     Old  Stilton,  sir,  just  now." 

Fearing  lest  many  words  might  betray  my  rank 
—  and,  strange  to  say,  though  I  should  not  have 
been  afraid  of  confessing  myself  an  artisan  before 
the  "  gentlemen  "  who  had  just  left  the  room,  I 
was  ashamed  to  have  my  low  estate  discovered, 
and  talked  over  with  his  compeers,  by  the  flunkey 
who  waited  on  them  —  I  answered,  "Anything — I 
really  don't  care,"  in  as  aristocratic  and  off-hand 
a  tone  as  I  could  assume. 

"Porter  or  ale,  sir?" 


310    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

"  Water,"  without  a  "  thank  you,"  I  am  ashamed 
to  say,  for  I  was  not  at  that  time  quite  sure  whether 
it  was  well-bred  to  be  civil  to  servants. 

The  man  vanished,  and  reappeared  with  a  savory 
luncheon,  silver  forks,  snowy  napkins,  smart  plates 
— I  felt  really  quite  a  gentleman. 

He  gave  me  full  directions  as  to  my  "  way  to 
the  boats,  sir  " ;  and  I  started  out  much  refreshed  ; 
passed  through  back  streets,  dingy,  dirty,  and 
profligate-looking  enough ;  out  upon  wide  mead- 
ows, fringed  with  enormous  elms ;  across  a  ferry ; 
through  a  pleasant  village,  with  its  old  gray  church 
and  spire;  by  the  side  of  a  sluggish  river,  alive 
with  wherries.  I  had  walked  down  some  mile  or 
so,  and  just  as  I  heard  a  cannon,  as  I  thought,  fire 
at  some  distance,  and  wondered  at  its  meaning,  I 
came  to  a  sudden  bend  of  the  river,  with  a  church- 
tower  hanging  over  the  stream  on  the  opposite 
bank,  a  knot  of  tall  poplars,  weeping  willows,  rich 
lawns,  sloping  down  to  the  water's  side,  gay  with 
bonnets  and  shawls ;  while,  along  the  edge  of  the 
stream,  light,  gaudily  painted  boats  apparently 
waited  for  the  race,  —  altogether  the  most  brilliant 
and  graceful  group  of  scenery  which  I  had  beheld 
in  my  little  travels.  I  stopped  to  gaze ;  and  among 
the  ladies  on  the  lawn  opposite,  caught  sight  of  a 
figure  —  my  heart  leapt  into  my  mouth  !  Was  it 
she  at  last  ?  It  was  too  far  to  distinguish  features ; 
the  dress  was  altogether  different  —  but  was  it  not 
she?  I  saw  her  move  across  the  lawn,  and  take 
the  arm  of  a  tall,  venerable-looking  man ;  and  his 
dress  was  the  same  as  that  of  the  Dean,  at  the 
Dulwich  Gallery  —  was  it  ?  was  it  not  ?  To  have 
found  her,  and  a  river  between  us !  It  was  ludi- 
crously miserable  —  miserably  ludicrous.     Oh,  that 


Cambridge  311 

accursed  river,  which  barred  me  from  certainty, 
from  bliss  !  I  would  have  plunged  across  —  but 
there  were  three  objections  —  first,  that  I  could  not 
swim;  next,  what  could  I  do  when  I  had  crossed? 
and  thirdly,  it  might  not  be  she  after  all. 

And  yet  I  was  certain  —  instinctively  certain  — 
that  it  was  she,  the  idol  of  my  imagination  for 
years.  If  I  could  not  see  her  features  under  that 
little  white  bonnet,  I  could  imagine  them  there; 
they  flashed  up  in  my  memory  as  fresh  as  ever. 
Did  she  remember  my  features,  as  I  did  hers  ? 
Would  she  know  me  again  ?  Had  she  ever  even 
thought  of  me,  from  that  day  to  this  ?  Fool !  But 
there  I  stood,  fascinated,  gazing  across  the  river, 
heedless  of  the  racing'-boats,  and  the  crowd,  and 
the  roar  that  was  rushing  up  to  me  at  the  rate 
of  ten  miles  an  hour,  and  in  a  moment  more,  had 
caught  me,  and  swept  me  away  with  it,  whether  I 
would  or  not,  along  the  towing-path,  by  the  side 
of  the  foremost  boats. 

And  yet,  after  a  few  moments,  I  ceased  to  won- 
der either  at  the  Cambridge  passion  for  boat- 
racing,  or  at  the  excitement  of  the  spectators. 
"  Honi  soit  qui  mal y  pense."     It  was  a  noble  sport 

—  a  sight  such  as  could  only  be  seen  in  England 

—  some  hundred  of  young  men,  who  might,  if 
they  had  chosen,  have  been  lounging  effeminately 
about  the  streets,  subjecting  themselves  voluntarily 
to  that  intense  exert4on,  for  the  mere  pleasure 
of  toil.  The  true  English  stuff  came  out  there; 
I  felt  that  in  spite  of  all  my  prejudices  —  the 
stuff  which  has  held  Gibraltar  and  conquered  at 
Waterloo — which  has  created  a  Birmingham  and 
a  Manchester,  and  colonized  every  quarter  of  the 
globe  —  that  grim,  earnest,  stubborn  energy,  which, 


3 1 2     Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

since  the  days  of  the  old  Romans,  the  English 
possess  alone  of  all  the  nations  of  the  earth.  I 
was  as  proud  of  the  gallant  young  fellows  as  if 
they  had  been  my  brothers  —  of  their  courage 
and  endurance  (for  one  could  see  that  it  was  no 
child's-play,  from  the  pale  faces,  and  panting  lips), 
their  strength  and  activity,  so  fierce  and  yet  so 
cultivated,  smooth,  harmonious,  as  oar  kept  time 
with  oar,  and  every  back  rose  and  fell  in  concert  — 
and  felt  my  soul  stirred  up  to  a  sort  of  sweet  mad- 
ness, not  merely  by  the  shouts  and  cheers  of  the 
mob  around  me,  but  by  the  loud,  fierce  pulse  of  the 
row-locks,  the  swift  whispering  rush  of  the  long 
snake-like  eight  oars,  the  swirl  and  gurgle  of  the 
water  in  their  wake,  the  grim,  breathless  silence  of 
the  straining  rowers.  My  blood  boiled  over,  and 
fierce  tears  swelled  into  my  eyes  ;  for  I,  too,  was 
a  man,  and  an  Englishman  ;  and  when  I  caught 
sight  of  my  cousin,  pulling  stroke  to  the  second 
boat  in  the  long  line,  with  set  teeth  and  flashing 
eyes,  the  great  muscles  on  his  bare  arms  springing 
up  into  knots  at  every  rapid  stroke,  I  ran  and 
shouted  among  the  maddest  and  the  foremost. 

But  I  soon  tired,  and,  footsore  as  I  was,  began  to 
find  my  strength  fail  me.  I  tried  to  drop  behind, 
but  found  it  impossible  in  the  press.  At  last,  quite 
out  of  breath,  I  stopped  ;  and  instantly  received  a 
heavy  blow  from  behind,  which  threw  me  on  my 
face ;  and  a  fierce  voice  shouted  in  my  ear,  "  Con- 
found you,  sir !  don't  you  know  better  than  to  do 
that?"  I  looked  up,  and  saw  a  man  twice  as  big 
as  myself  sprawling  over  me,  headlong  down  the 
bank,  toward  the  river,  whither  I  followed  him,  but 
alas !  not  on  my  feet,  but  rolling  head  over  heels. 
On  the  very  brink  he  stuck  his  heels  into  the  turf, 


Cambridge  3 1 3 

and  stopped  dead,  amid  a  shout  of,  "  Well  saved, 
Lynedale  !  "  I  did  not  stop  ;  but  rolled  into  some 
two-feet  water,  amid  the  laughter  and  shouts  of  the 
men. 

I  scrambled  out,  and  limped  on,  shaking  with 
wet  and  pain,  till  I  was  stopped  by  a  crowd  which 
filled  the  towing-path.  An  eight-oar  lay  under 
the  bank,  and  the  men  on  shore  were  cheering  and 
praising  those  in  the  boat  for  having  '"bumped," 
which  word  I  already  understood  to  mean,  win- 
ning a  race. 

Among  them,  close  to  me,  was  the  tall  man  who 
had  upset  me ;  and  a  very  handsome,  high-bred 
looking  man  he  was.  I  tried  to  slip  by,  but  he 
recognized  me  instantly,  and  spoke. 

"  I  hope  I  did  n't  hurt  you  much.  Really,  when 
I  spoke  so  sharply,  I  did  not  see  that  you  were 
not  a  gownsman  !  " 

The  speech,  as  I  suppose  now,  was  meant  cour- 
teously enough.  It  indicated  that  though  he  might 
allow  himself  liberties  with  men  of  his  own  class, 
he  was  too  well  bred  to  do  so  with  me.  But  in 
my  anger  I  saw  nothing  but  the  words,  "  not  a 
gownsman."  Why  should  he  see  that  I  was  not  a 
gownsman?  Because  I  was  shabbier? — (and  my 
clothes,  over  and  above  the  ducking  they  had  had, 
were  shabby)  ;  or  more  plebeian  in  appearance 
(whatsoever  that  may  mean)?  or  wanted  some- 
thing else,  which  the  rest  had  about  them,  and  I 
had  not?  Why  should  he  know  that  I  was  not  a 
gownsman?  I  did  not  wish,  of  course,  to  be  a 
gentleman,  and  an  aristocrat;  but  I  was  nettled, 
nevertheless,  at  not  being  mistaken  for  one;  and 
answered,  sharply  enough  — 

"  No   matter   whether   I    am    hurt   or   not.     It 


314    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

serves   me  right  for   getting   among  you    cursed 
aristocrats." 

"  Box  the  cad's  ears,  Lord  Lynedale,"  said  a  dirty 
fellow  with  a  long  pole  —  a  cad  himself,  I  should 
have  thought. 

"  Let  him  go  home  and  ask  his  mammy  to  hang 
him  out  to  dry,"  said  another. 

The  Lord  (for  so  I  understood  he  was)  looked 
at  me  with  an  air  of  surprise  and  amusement, 
which  may  have  been  good-natured  enough  in 
him,  but  did  not  increase  the  good-nature  in  me. 

"Tut,  tut,  my  good  fellow.  I  really  am  very 
sorry  for  having  upset  you.  Here 's  half-a-crown 
to  cover  damages." 

"  Better  give  it  me  than  a  muff  like  that," 
quoth  he  of  the  long  pole ;  while  I  answered,  sur- 
lily enough,  that  I  wanted  neither  him  nor  his 
money,  and  burst  through  the  crowd  toward  Cam- 
bridge. I  was  so  shabby  and  plebeian,  then,  that 
people  actually  dare  offer  me  money  !.  Intolerable ! 

The  reader  may  say  that  I  was  in  a  very  un- 
wholesome and  unreasonable  frame  of  mind. 

So  I  was.  And  so  would  he  have  been  in  my 
place. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

THE  LOST  IDOL  FOUND 

ON  my  return,  I  found  my  cousin  already  at 
home,  in  high  spirits  at  having,  as  he  in- 
formed me,  "  bumped  the  first  Trinity."  I  excused 
myself  for  my  dripping  state,  simply  by  saying 
that  I  had  slipped  into  the  river.  To  tell  him  the 
whole  of  the  story,  while  the  fancied  insult  still 
rankled  fresh  in  me,  was  really  too  disagreeable 
both  to  my  memory  and  my  pride. 

Then  came  the  question,  "  What  had  brought 
me  to  Cambridge  ?  "  I  told  him  all,  and  he  seemed 
honestly  to  sympathize  with  my  misfortunes. 

"  Never  mind  ;  we  '11  make  it  all  right  somehow. 
Those  poems  of  yours  —  you  must  let  me  have 
them  and  look  over  them ;  and  I  daresay  I  shall 
persuade  the  governor  to  do  something  with  them. 
After  all,  it's  no  loss  for  you;  you  couldn't  have 
got  on  tailoring  —  much  too  sharp  a  fellow  for 
that;  —  you  ought  to  be  at  college,  if  one  could 
only  get  you  there.  These  sizarships,  now,  were 
meant  for — just  such  cases  as  yours  —  clever  fel- 
Vdws  who  could  not  afford  to  educate  themselves ; 
if  we  could  only  help  you  to  one  of  them, 
now " 

"  You  forget  that  in  that  case,"  said  I,  with 
something  like  a  sigh,  "  I  should  have  to  become 
a  member  of  the  Church  of  England." 


316    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

"  Why,  no ;  not  exactly.  Though,  of  course,  if 
you  want  to  get  all  out  of  the  university  which  you 
ought  to  get,  you  must  do  so  at  last." 

"  And  pretend  to  believe  what  I  do  not ;  for 
the  sake  of  deserting  my  own  class,  and  pandering 
to  the  very  aristocrats,  whom " 

"  Hullo !  "  and  he  jumped  with  a  hoarse  laugh. 
*'  Stop  that  till  I  see  whether  the  door  is  sported. 
Why,  you  silly  fellow,  what  harm  have  the  aristo- 
crats, as  you  call  them,  ever  done  you  ?  Are  they 
not  doing  you  good  at  this  moment?  Are  you 
not,  by  virtue  of  their  aristocratic  institutions, 
nearer  having  your  poems  published,  your  genius 
recognized,  etc.  etc.,  than  ever  you  were  before  ? " 

"  Aristocrats?     Then  you  call  yourself  one  } " 

"  No,  Alton,  my  boy ;  not  yet,"  said  he,  quietly 
and  knowingly.  "  Not  yet :  but  I  have  chosen 
the  right  road,  and  shall  end  at  the  road's  end  ; 
and  I  advise  you  —  for  really,  as  my  cousin,  I  wish 
you  all  success,  even  for  the  mere  credit  of  the 
family,  to  choose  the  same  road  likewise." 

"What  road?" 

"  Come  up  to  Cambridge,  by  hook  or  by  crook, 
and  then  take  orders." 

I  laughed  scornfully. 

"  My  good  cousin,  it  is  the  only  method  yet 
discovered  for  turning  a  snob  (as  I  am,  or  was) 
into  a  gentleman ;  except  putting  him  into  a 
heavy  cavalry  regiment.  My  brother,  who  has  no 
brains,  preferred  the  latter  method.  I,  who  flatter 
myself  that  I  have  some,  have  taken  the  former." 
The  thought  was  new  and  astonishing  to  me,  and 
I  looked  at  him  in  silence  while  he  ran  on  — 

"  If  you  are  once  a  parson,  all  is  safe.  Be  you 
who  you  may  before,  from  that  moment  you  are  a 


The  Lost  Idol  Found  317 

gentleman.  No  one  will  oflfer  an  insult.  You  are 
good  enough  for  any  man's  society.  You  can 
dine  at  any  nobleman's  table.  You  can  be  friend, 
confidant,  father  confessor,  if  you  like,  to  the  high- 
est women  in  the  land ;  and  if  you  have  person, 
manners,  and  common  sense,  marry  one  of  them 
into  the  bargain,  Alton,  my  boy." 

"And  it  is  for  that  that  you  will  sell  your  soul 
—  to  become  a  hanger-on  of  the  upper  classes,  in 
sloth  and  luxury?" 

"Sloth  and  luxury?  Stuff  and  nonsense!  I 
tell  you  that  after  I  have  taken  orders,  I  shall  have 
years  and  years  of  hard  work  before  me;  con- 
tinual drudgery  of  serving  tables,  managing  chari- 
ties, visiting,  preaching,  from  morning  till  night, 
and  after  that  often  from  night  to  morning  again. 
Enough  to  wear  out  any  but  a  tough  constitution, 
as  I  trust  mine  is.  Work,  Alton,  and  hard  work, 
is  the  only  way  nowadays  to  rise  in  the  church,  as 
in  other  professions.  My  father  can  buy  me  a 
living  some  day:  but  he  can't  buy  me  success, 

notoriety,   social   position,    power "  and    he 

stopped  suddenly,  as  if  he  had  been  on  the  point 
of  saying  something  more  which  should  not  have 
been  said. 

"  And  this,"  I  said,  "  is  your  idea  of  a  vocation 
for  the  sacred  ministry?  It  is  for  this,  that  you, 
brought  up  a  dissenter,  have  gone  over  to  the 
Church  of  England?" 

"  And  how  do  you  know  "  —  and  his  whole  tone 
of  voice  changed  instantly  into  what  was  meant, 
I  suppose,  for  a  gentle  seriousness  and  reverent 
suavity  —  "  that  I  am  not  a  sincere  member  of  the 
Church  of  England?  How  do  you  know  that  I 
may  not  have  loftier  plans  and  ideas,  though  I  may 


3 1 8     Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

not  choose  to  parade  them  to  every  one,  and 
give  that  which  is  holy  to  the  dogs?" 

"  I  am  the  dog,  then  ?  "  I  asked,  half  amused, 
for  I  was  too  curious  about  his  state  of  mind  to  be 
angry. 

"  Not  at  all,  my  dear  fellow.  But  those  great 
men  to  whom  we  (or  at  least  I)  owe  our  conver- 
sion to  the  true  Church,  always  tell  us  (and  you 
"*  will  feel  yourself  how  right  they  are)  not  to  parade 
religious  feelings;  to  look  upon  them  as  sacred 
things,  to  be  treated  with  that  due  reserve  which 
springs  from  real  reverence.  You  know,  as  well  as 
'  I,  whether  that  is  the  fashion  of  the  body  in  which 
we  were,  alas  !  brought  up.  You  know,  as  well  as 
I,  whether  the  religious  conversation  of  that  body 
has  heightened  your  respect  for  sacred  things." 

"  I  do,  too  well."  And  I  thought  of  Mr.  Wig- 
ginton  and  my  mothei:'s  tea  parties. 

"  I  daresay  the  vulgarity  of  that  school  has,  ere 
now,  shaken  your  faith  in  all  that  was  holy?" 

I  was  very  near  confessing  that  it  had:  but  a 
feeling  came  over  me,  I  knew  not  why,  that  my 
cousin  would  have  been  glad  to  get  me  into  his 
power,  and  would  therefore  have  welcomed  a  con- 
fession of  infidelity.     So  I  held  my  tongue. 

"  I  can  confess,"  he  said,  in  the  most  confiden- 
tial tone,  "  that  it  had  for  a  time  that  effect  on  me. 
I  have  confessed  it,  ere  now,  and  shall  again  and 
again,  I  trust.  But  I  shudder  to  think  of  what 
I  might  have  been  believing  or  disbelieving  now, 
if  I  had  not  in  a  happy  hour  fallen  in  with  Mr. 
Newman's  sermons,  and  learnt  from  them,  and 
from  his  disciples,  what  the  Church  of  England 
{  really  was ;  not  Protestant,  no ;  but  Catholic  in 
the  deepest  and  highest  sense." 


The  Lost  Idol  Found  319' 

"So  you  are  one  of  these  new  Tractarians? 
You  do  not  seem  to  have  adopted  yet  the  ascetic 
mode  of  life,  which  I  hear  they  praise  up  so 
highly." 

"  My  dear  Alton,  if  you  have  read,  as  you  have, 
your  Bible,  you  will  recollect  a  text  which  tells  you 
not  to  appear  to  men  to  fast.  What  I  do  or  do  not 
do  in  the  way  of  self-denial,  unless  I  were  actually 
profligate,  which  I  give  you  my  sacred  honor  I 
am  not,  must  be  a  matter  between  Heaven  and 
myself" 

There  was  no  denying  that  truth ;  but  the 
longer  my  cousin  talked  the  less  I  trusted  in  him 
—  I  had  almost  said  the  less  I  believed  in  him. 
Ever  since  the  tone  of  his  voice  had  changed  so 
suddenly,  I  liked  him  less  than  when  he  was  hon- 
estly blurting  out  his  coarse  and  selfish  ambition. 
I  do  not  think  he  was  a  hypocrite.  I  think  he 
believed  what  he  said,  as  strongly  as  he  could 
believe  anything.  He  proved  afterwards  that  he 
did  so,  as  far  as  man  can  judge  man,  by  severe 
and  diligent  parish  work :  but  I  cannot  help  doubt- 
ing at  times,  if  that  man  ever  knew  what  believ- 
ing meant.  God  forgive  him !  In  that,  he  is  no 
worse  than  hundreds  more  who  have  never  felt  the 
burning  and  shining  flame  of  intense  conviction, 
of  some  truth  rooted  in  the  inmost  recesses  of  the 
soul,  by  which  a  man  must  live,  for  which  he 
would  not  fear  to  die. 

And  therefore  I  listened  to  him  dully  and  care- 
lessly; I  did  not  care  to  bring  objections,  which 
arose  thick  and  fast,  to  everything  he  said.  He 
tried  to  assure  me  —  and  did  so  with  a  great  deal 
of  cleverness  —  that  this  Tractarian  movement  was 
not  really  an  aristocratic,  but  a  democratic   one  i 


320    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

that  the  Catholic  Church  had  been  in  all  ages  the 
church  of  the  poor;  that  the  clergy  were  com- 
missioned by  Heaven  to  vindicate  the  rights  of 
the  people,  and  to  stand  between  them  and  the 
tyranny  of  Mammon.  I  did  not  care  to  answer 
him  that  the  "  Catholic  Church  "  had  always  been 
a  church  of  slaves,  and  not  of  free  men;  that 
the  clergy  had  in  every  age  been  the  enemies 
of  light,  of  liberty ;  the  oppressors  of  their  flocks  ; 
and  that  to  exalt  a  sacerdotal  caste  over  other 
aristocracies,  whether  of  birth  or  wealth,  was 
merely  to  change  our  tyrants.  When  he  told  me 
that  a  clergyman  of  the  Established  Church,  if  he 
took  up  the  cause  of  the  working  classes,  might 
be  the  boldest  and  surest  of  all  allies,  just  because, 
being  established,  and  certain  of  his  income,  he 
cared  not  one  sixpence  what  he  said  to  any  man 
alive,  I  did  not  care  to  answer  him,  as  I  might  — 
And  more  shame  upon  the  clergy  that,  having  the 
safe  vantage-ground  which  you  describe,  they  dare 
not  use  it  like  men  in  a  good  cause,  and  speak 
their  minds,  if  forsooth  no  one  can  stop  them  from 
so  doing.  In  fact,  I  was  distrustful,  which  I  had  a 
right  to  be,  and  envious  also ;  but  if  I  had  a  right  to 
be  that,  I  was  certainly  not  wise,  nor  is  any  man, 
in  exercising  the  said  dangerous  right  as  I  did,  and 
envying  my  cousin  and  every  man  in  Cambridge. 

But  that  evening,  understanding  that  a  boating 
supper,  or  some  jubilation  over  my  cousin's  vic- 
tory, was  to  take  place  in  his  rooms,  I  asked  leave 
to  absent  myself —  and  I  do  not  think  my  cousin 
felt  much  regret  at  giving  me  leave  —  and  wan- 
dered up  and  down  the  King's  Parade,  watching 
the  tall  gables  of  King's  College  Chapel,  and  the 
classic  front  of  the  Senate  House,  and  the  stately 


The  Lost  Idol  Found  321 

tower  of  St.  Mary's,  as  they  stood,  stern  and  silent, 
bathed  in  the  still  glory  of  the  moonlight,  and  con- 
trasting bitterly  the  lot  of  those  who  were  educated 
under  their  shadow  to  the  lot  which  had  befallen 
me.^ 

"  Noble  buildings  !  "  I  said  to  myself,  "  and  noble 
institutions !  given  freely  to  the  people,  by  those 
who  loved  the  people,  and  the  Saviour  who 
died  for  them.  They  gave  us  what  they  had, 
those  mediaeval  founders:  whatsoever  narrowness 
•  of  mind  or  superstition  defiled  their  gift  was  not 
their  fault,  but  the  fault  of  their  whole  age.  The 
best  they  knew  they  imparted  freely,  and  God  will 
reward  them  for  it.  To  monopolize  those  institu- 
tions for  the  rich,  as  is  done  now,  is  to  violate  both 
the  spirit  and  the  letter  of  the  foundations;  to 
restrict  their  studies  to  the  limits  of  middle-aged 
Romanism,  their  conditions  of  admission  to  those 
fixed  at  the  Reformation,  is  but  a  shade  less  wrong- 
ful. The  letter  is  kept  —  the  spirit  is  thrown  away. 
You  refuse  to  admit  any  who  are  not  members  of 
the  Church  of  England,  say,  rather,  any  who  will 
not  sign  the  dogmas  of  the  Church  of  England, 
whether  they  believe  a  word  of  them  or  not.  Use- 
less formalism !  which  lets  through  the  reckless, 
the  profligate,  the  ignorant,  the  hypocritical,  and 
only  excludes  the  honest  and  the  conscientious, 
and  the  mass  of  the  intellectual  workingmen. 
And  whose  fault  is  it  that  THEY  are  not  members 
of  the  Church  of  England?     Whose  fault  is  it,  I 

*  It  must  be  remembered  that  these  impressions  of,  and  com- 
ments on  the  universities  are  not  my  own.  They  are  simply  what 
clever  workingmen  thought  about  them  from  1845  to  1850;  a 
period  at  which  I  had  the  fullest  opportunities  for  knowing  the 
thoughts  of  workingmen. 


322    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

ask?  Your  predecessors  neglected  the  lower  or- 
ders, till  they  have  ceased  to  reverence  either  you 
or  your  doctrines,  you  confess  that,  among  your- 
selves, freely  enough.  You  throw  the  blame  of 
the  present  wide-spread  dislike  to  the  Church  of 
England,  on  her  sins  during  "the  godless  eigh- 
teenth century."  Be  it  so.  Why  are  those  sins  to 
be  visited  on  us?  Why  are  we  to  be  shut  out 
from  the  universities,  which  were  founded  for  us, 
because  you  have  let  us  grow  up,  by  millions, 
heathens  and  infidels,  as  you  call  us  ?  Take  away 
your  subterfuge !  It  is  not  merely  because  we  are 
bad  churchmen  that  you  exclude  us,  else  you 
would  be  crowding  your  colleges,  now,  with  the 
talented  poor  of  the  agricultural  districts,  who,  as 
you  say,  remain  faithful  to  the  church  of  their 
fathers.  But  are  there  six  laborers'  sons  educat- 
ing in  the  universities  at  this  moment?  No!  the 
real  reason  for  our  exclusion,  churchmen  or  not,  is, 
because  we  are  poor —  because  we  cannot  pay  your 
exorbitant  fees,  often,  as  in  the  case  of  bachelors 
of  arts,  exacted  for  tuition  which  is  never  given, 
and  residence  which  is  not  permitted  —  because 
we  could  not  support  the  extravagance  which  you 
not  only  permit,  but  encourage  —  because  by  your 
own  unblushing  confession,  it  insures  the  univer- 
sity '  the  support  of  the  aristocracy.' " 

"But,  on  religious  points,  at  least,  you  must 
abide  by  the  statutes  of  the  university." 

Strange  argument,  truly,  to  be  urged  literally 
by  English  Protestants  in  possession  of  Roman 
Catholic  bequests !  If  that  be  true  in  the  letter,  as 
well  as  in  the  spirit,  you  should  have  given  place 
long  ago  to  the  Dominicans  and  the  Franciscans. 
In  the  spirit  it  is  true,  and  the  Reformers  acted  on  it 


The  Lost  Idol  Found  323 

when  they  rightly  converted  the  universities  to  the 
uses  of  the  new  faith.  They  carried  out  the  spirit 
of  the  founders'  statutes  by  making  the  universities 
as  good  as  they  could  be,  and  letting  them  share 
in  the  new  light  of  the  Elizabethan  age.  But  was 
the  sum  of  knowledge,  human  and  divine,  perfected 
at  the  Reformation?  Who  gave  the  Reformers, 
or  you,  who  call  yourselves  their  representatives, 
a  right  to  say  to  the  mind  of  man,  and  to  the 
teaching  of  God's  Spirit,  "  Hitherto,  and  no 
farther  "  ?  Society  and  mankind,  the  children  of 
the  Supreme,  will  not  stop  growing  for  your  dog- 
mas —  much  less  for  your  vested  interests ;  and 
the  righteous  law  of  mingled  development  and 
renovation,  applied  in  the  sixteenth  century,  must 
be  reapplied  in  the  nineteenth ;  while  the  spirits  of 
the  founders,  now  purged  from  the  superstitions 
and  ignorances  of  their  age,  shall  smile  from 
heaven,  and  say,  "  So  would  we  have  had  it,  if  we 
had  lived  in  the  great  nineteenth  century,  into 
which  it  has  been  your  privilege  to  be  born." 

But  such  thoughts  soon  passed  away.  The 
image  which  I  had  seen  that  afternoon  upon  the 
river  banks  had  awakened  imperiously  the  frantic 
longings  of  past  years ;  and  now  it  reascended  its 
ancient  throne,  and  tyrannously  drove  forth  every 
other  object,  to  keep  rne  alone  with  its  own  tan- 
talizing and  torturing  beauty.  I  did  not  think 
about  her — No;  I  only  stupidly  and  steadfastly 
stared  at  her  with  my  whole  soul  and  imagination, 
through  that  long  sleepless  night;  and,  in  spite  of 
the  fatigue  of  my  journey,  and  the  stififness  pro- 
ceeding from  my  fall  and  wetting,  I  lay  tossing  till 
the  early  sun  poured  into  my  bedroom  window. 
Then   I  arose,  dressed    myself,  and  went  out  to 


324     Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

wander  up  and  down  the  streets,  gazing  at  one 
splendid  building  after  another,  till  I  found  the 
gates  of  King's  College  open,  I  entered  eagerly, 
through  a  porch  which,  to  my  untutored  taste, 
seemed  gorgeous  enough  to  form  the  entrance  to 
a  fairy  palace,  and  stood  in  the  quadrangle,  riveted 
to  the  spot  by  the  magnificence  of  the  huge  chapel 
on  the  right. 

If  I  had  admired  it  the  night  before,  I  felt  in- 
clined to  worship  it  this  morning,  as  I  saw  the  lofty 
buttresses  and  spires,  fretted  with  all  their  gor- 
geous carving,  and  "  storied  windows  richly  dight," 
sleeping  in  the  glare  of  the  newly  risen  sun,  and 
throwing  their  long  shadows  due  westward  down 
the  sloping  lawn,  and  across  the  river  which 
dimpled  and  gleamed  below,  till  it  was  lost  among 
the  towering  masses  of  crisp  elms  and  rose-gar- 
landed chestnuts  in  the  rich  gardens  beyond. 

Was  I  delighted  ?  Yes  —  and  yet  no.  There  is 
a  painful  feeling  in  seeing  anything  magnificent 
which  one  cannot  understand.  And  perhaps  it 
was  a  morbid  sensitiveness,  but  the  feeling  was 
strong  upon  me  that  I  was  an  interloper  there  — 
out  of  harmony  with  the  scene  and  the  system 
which  had  created  it ;  that  I  might  be  an  object  of 
unpleasant  curiosity,  perhaps  of  scorn  (for  I  had 
not  forgotten  the  nobleman  at  the  boat-race), 
amid  those  monuments  of  learned  luxury.  Per- 
haps, on  the  other  hand,  it  was  only  from  the  in- 
stinct which  makes  us  seek  for  solitude  under  the 
pressure  of  intense  emotions,  when  we  have 
neither  language  to  express  them  to  ourselves,  nor 
loved  one  in  whose  silent  eyes  we  may  read  kin- 
dred feelings  —  a  sympathy  which  wants  no  words. 
Whatever  the  cause  was,  when  a  party  of  men,  in 


The  Lost  Idol  Found  325 

their  caps  and  gowns,  approached  me  down  the 
dark  avenue  which  led  into  the  country,  I  was 
glad  to  shrink  for  concealment  behind  the  weep- 
ing-willow at  the  foot  of  the  bridge,  and  slink  off 
unobserved  to  breakfast  with  my  cousin. 

We  had  just  finished  breakfast,  my  cousin  was 
lighting  his  meerschaum,  when  a  tall  figure  passed 
the  window,  and  the  taller  of  the  noblemen,  whom 
I  had  seen  at  the  boat-race,  entered  the  room  with 
a  packet  of  papers  in  his  hand. 

"  Here,  Locule  mi !  my  pocket-book — or  rather, 
to  stretch  a  bad  pun  till  it  bursts,  my  pocket-dic- 
tionary—  I  require  the  aid  of  your  benevolently 
squandered  talents  for  the  correction  of  these 
proofs.  I  am,  as  usual,  both  idle  and  busy  this 
morning ;  so  draw  pen,  and  set  to  work  for  me." 

"  I  am  exceedingly  sorry,  my  lord,"  answered 
George,  in  his  most  obsequious  tone,  "  but  I  must 
work  this  morning  with  all  my  might.  Last  night, 
recollect,  was  given  to  triumph,  Bacchus,  and 
idleness." 

"  Then  find  some  one  who  will  do  them  for  me, 
my  Ulysses  polumechane,  polutrope,  panurge." 

"  I  shall  be  most  happy"  (with  a  half-frown  and 
a  wince)  "to  play  Panurge  to  your  lordship's 
Pantagruel,  on  board  the  new  yacht." 

"  Oh,  I  am  perfect  in  that  character,  I  suppose? 
And  is  she  after  all,  like  Pantagruel's  ship,  to  be 
loaded  with  hemp  ?  Well,  we  must  try  two  or  three 
milder  cargoes  first.  But  come,  find  me  some 
starving  genius  —  some  graeculus  esuriens " 

"  Who  will  ascend  to  the  heaven  of  your  lord- 
ship's eloquence  for  the  bidding?  " 

"  Five  shillings  a  sheet — there  will  be  about  two 
of  them,  I  think,  in  the  pamphlet" 


326    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

"  May  I  take  the  liberty  of  recommending  my 
cousin  here?  " 

"Your  cousin?"  And  he  turned  to  me,  who 
had  been  examining  with  a  sad  and  envious  eye 
the  contents  of  the  book-shelves.  Our  eyes  met, 
and  first  a  faint  blush,  and  then  a  smile  of  recogni- 
tion, passed  over  his  magnificent  countenance. 

"  I  think  I  had  —  I  am  ashamed  that  I  cannot 
say  the  pleasure,  of  meeting  him  at  the  boat-race 
yesterday." 

My  cousin  looked  inquiringly  and  vexed  at  us 
both.     The  nobleman  smiled. 

"  Oh,  the  fault  was  mine,  not  his." 

"  I  cannot  think,"  I  answered,  "  that  you  have 
any  reasons  to  remember  with  shame  your  own 
kindness  and  courtesy.  As  for  me,"  I  went  on  bit- 
terly, "  I  suppose  a  poor  journeyman  tailor,  who 
ventures  to  look  on  at  the  sports  of  gentlemen, 
only  deserves  to  be  run  over." 

"  Sir,"  he  said,  looking  at  me  with  a  severe  and 
searching  glance,  "your  bitterness  is  pardonable 
—  but  not  your  sneer.  You  do  not  yourself  think 
what  you  say,  and  you  ought  to  know  that  I  think 
it  still  less  than  yourself.  If  you  intend  your  irony 
to  be  useful,  you  should  keep  it  till  you  can  use  it 
courageously  against  the  true  offenders." 

I  looked  up  at  him  fiercely  enough,  but  the  placid 
smile  which  had  returned  to  his  face  disarmed  me. 

"Your  class,"  he  went  on,  "blind  yourselves  and 
our  class  as  much  by  wholesale  denunciations  of 
us,  as  we,  alas !  who  should  know  better,  do  by 
wholesale  denunciations  of  you.  As  you  grow 
older,  you  will  learn  that  there  are  exceptions  to 
every  rule." 

"  And  yet  the  exception  proves  the  rule." 


The  Lost  Idol  Found  327 

"  Most  painfully  true,  sir.  But  that  argument  is 
two-edged.  For  instance,  am  I  to  consider  it  the 
exception  or  the  rule  when  I  am  told  that  you,  a 
journeyman  tailor,  are  able  to  correct  these  proofs 
forme?" 

"  Nearer  the  rule,  I  think,  than  you  yet 
fancy." 

"  You  speak  out  boldly  and  well ;  but  how  can 
you  judge  what  I  may  please  to  fancy?  At  all 
events,  I  will  make  trial  of  you.  There  are  the 
proofs.  Bring  them  to  me  by  four  o'clock  this 
afternoon,  and  if  they  are  well  done,  I  will  pay 
you  more  than  I  should  do  to  the  average  hack- 
writer, for  you  will  deserve  more." 

I  took  the  proofs;  he  turned  to  go,  and  by  a 
side-look  at  George  beckoned  him  out  of  the 
room.  I  heard  a  whispering  in  the  passage ;  and 
I  do  not  deny  that  my  heart  beat  high  with  new 
hopes,  as  I  caught  unwillingly  the  words  — 

"Such  a  forehead! — such  an  eye! — such  a 
contour  of  feature  as  that !  —  Locule  mi  —  that 
boy  ought  not  to  be  mending  trousers." 

My  cousin  returned,  half  laughing,  half  angry. 

"  Alton,  you  fool,  why  did  you  let  out  that  you 
were  a  snip?" 

"  I  am  not  ashamed  of  my  trade." 

"  I  am,  then.  However,  you  've  done  with  it 
now ;  and  if  you  can't  come  the  gentleman,  you 
may  as  well  come  the  rising  genius.  The  self- 
educated  dodge  pays  well  just  now ;  and  after  all, 
you've  hooked  his  lordship  —  thank  me  for  that. 
But  you  '11  never  hold  him,  you  impudent  dog,  if 
you  pull  so  hard  on  him" — he  went  on,  putting 
his  hands  into  his  coat-tail  pockets,  and  sticking 
himself  in  front  of  the  fire,  like  the  Delphic  Python- 


328     Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

ess  upon  the  sacred  tripod,  in  hopes,  I  suppose, 
of  some  oracular  afflatus  —  "  You  will  never  hold 
him,  I  say,  if  you  pull  so  hard  on  him.  You 
ought  to  '  my  lord '  him  for  months  yet,  at  least. 
You  know,  my  good  fellow,  you  must  take  every 
possible  care  to  pick  up  what  good  breeding  you 
can,  if  I  take  the  trouble  to  put  you  in  the  way  of 
good  society,  and  tell  you  where  my  private  birds'- 
nests  are,  like  the  green  schoolboy  some  poet  or 
other  talks  of." 

"  He  is  no  lord  of  mine,"  I  answered,  "  in  any 
sense  of  the  word,  and  therefore  I  shall  not  call 
him  so." 

"  Upon  my  honor !  here  is  a  young  gentleman 
who  intends  to  rise  in  the  world,  and  then  com- 
mences by  trying  to  walk  through  the  first  post  he 
meets !  Noodle !  can't  you  do  like  me,  and  get 
out  of  the  carts'  way  when  they  come  by?  If  you 
intend  to  go  ahead,  you  must  just  dodge  in  and 
out  like  a  dog  at  a  fair.  '  She  stoops  to  conquer ' 
is  my  motto,  and  a  precious  good  one  too." 

"  I  have  no  wish  to  conquer  Lord  Lynedale,  and 
so  I  shall  not  stoop  to  him." 

"  I  have,  then ;  and  to  very  good  purpose,  too. 
I  am  his  whetstone,  for  polishing  up  that  classical 
wit  of  his  on,  till  he  carries  it  into  Parliament  to 
astonish  the  country  squires.  He  fancies  himself 
a  second^Goethe,  I  hav'  n't  forgot  his  hitting  at  me, 
before  a  large  supper-party,  with  a  certain  epigram 
of  that  old  turkeycock's  about  the  whale  having 
his  unmentionable  parasite  —  and  the  great  man 
likewise.  Whale,  indeed  !  I  bide  my  time,  Alton, 
my  boy  —  I  bide  my  time ;  and  then  let  your 
grand  aristocrat  look  out !  If  he  does  not  find  the 
supposed  whale-unmentionable  a  good  stout  hold- 


The  Lost  Idol  Found  329 

ing  harpoon,  with  a  tough  line  to  it,  and  a  long 
one,  it's  a  pity,  Alton,  my  boy !  " 

And  he  burst  into  a  coarse  laugh,  tossed  himself 
down  on  the  sofa,  and  re-lighted  his  meerschaum. 

"  He  seemed  to  me,"  I  answered,  "  to  have  a 
peculiar  courtesy  and  liberality  of  mind  towards 
those  below  him  in  rank." 

"  Oh !  he  had,  had  he  ?  Now,  I  '11  just  put  you 
up  to  a  dodge.  He  intends  to  come  the  Mirabeau 
— fancies  his  mantle  has  fallen  on  him  —  prays  be- 
fore the  fellow's  bust,  I  believe,  if  one  knew  the 
truth,  for  a  double  portion  of  his  spirit ;  and  there- 
fore it  is  a  part  of  his  game  to  ingratiate  himself 
with  all  pot-boy-dom,  while  at  heart  he  is  as 
proud,  exclusive  an  aristocrat,  as  ever  wore  noble- 
man's hat.  At  all  events,  you  may  get  something 
out  of  him,  if  you  play  your  cards  well  —  or, 
rather,  help  me  to  play  mine ;  for  I  consider  him 
as  my  property,  and  you  only  as  my  aide-de- 
camp." 

"  I  shall  play  no  one's  cards,"  I  answered  sulk- 
ily. "  I  am  doing  work  fairly,  and  shall  be  fairly 
paid  for  it,  and  keep  my  own  independence." 

"  Independence  —  hey-day !  Have  you  forgot- 
ten that,  after  all,  you  are  my — guest,  to  call  it 
by  the  mildest  term?" 

"  Do  you  upbraid  me  with  that?  "  I  said,  start- 
ing up.  "Do  you  expect  me  to  live  on  your 
charity,  on  condition  of  doing  your  dirty  work? 
You  do  not  know  me,  sir.  I  leave  your  roof 
this  instant !  " 

"  You  do  not !  "  answered  he,  laughing  loudly, 
as  he  sprang  over  the  sofa,  and  set  his  back 
against  the  door.  "  Come,  come,  you  Will-o'-the- 
wisp,  as  full  of  flights,  and  fancies,  and  vagaries, 

Vol.  in— 15 


33©    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

as  a  sick  old  maid !  can't  you  see  which  side  your 
bread  is  buttered?  Sit  down,  I  say!  Don't  you 
know  that  I  'm  as  good-natured  a  fellow  as  ever 
lived,  although  I  do  parade  a  little  Gil  Bias  moral- 
ity now  and  then,  just  for  fun's  sake?  Do  you 
think  I  should  be  so  open  with  it,  if  I  meant  any- 
thing very  diabolic?  There  —  sit  down,  and  don't 
go  into  King  Cambyses's  vein,  or  Queen  Hecuba's 
tears  either,  which  you  seem  inclined  to  do." 

"  I  know  you  have  been  very  generous  to  me,"  I 
said  penitently ;  **  but  a  kindness  becomes  none 
when  you  are  upbraided  with  it." 

"  So  say  the  copy-books  —  I  deny  it.  At  all 
events,  I  '11  say  no  more ;  and  you  shall  sit  down 
there,  and  write  as  still  as  a  mouse  till  two,  while  I 
tackle  this  never-to-be-enough-by-unhappy-third- 
years'-men-execrated  Griffin's  Optics." 

At  four  that  afternoon,  I  knocked,  proofs  in 
hand,  at  the  door  of  Lord  Lynedale's  rooms  in  the 
King's  Parade.  The  door  was  opened  by  a  little 
elderly  groom,  gray-coated,  gray-gaitered,  gray- 
haired,  gray-visaged.  He  had  the  look  of  a  re- 
spectable old  family  retainer,  and  his  exquisitely 
neat  groom's  dress  gave  him  a  sort  of  interest  in 
my  eyes.  Class  costumes,  relics  though  they  are 
of  feudalism,  carry  a  charm  with  them.  They  are 
symbolic,  definitive ;  they  bestow  a  personality  on 
the  wearer,  which  satisfies  the  mind,  by  enabling  it 
instantly  to  classify  him,  to  connect  him  with  a 
thousand  stories  and  associations;  and  to  my 
young  mind,  the  wiry,  shrewd,  honest,  grim  old 
serving-man  seemed  the  incarnation  of  all  the 
wonders  of  Newmarket,  and  the  hunting-kennel, 
and  the  steeple-chase,  of  which  I  had  read,  with 


The  Lost  Idol  Found  331 

alternate  admiration  and  contempt,  in  the  news- 
papers. He  ushered  me  in  with  a  good  breeding 
which  surprised  me ;  — without  insolence  to  me,  or 
servility  to  his  master ;  both  of  which  I  had  been 
taught  to  expect. 

Lord  Lynedale  bade  me  very  courteously  sit 
down  while  he  examined  the  proofs.  I  looked 
round  the  low-wainscoted  apartment,  with  its  nar- 
row mullioned  windows,  in  extreme  curiosity. 
What  a  real  nobleman's  abode  could  be  like,  was 
naturally  worth  examining,  to  one  who  had,  all  his 
life,  heard  of  the  aristocracy  as  of  some  mythic 
Titans  —  whether  fiends  or  gods,  being  yet  a 
doubtful  point  —  altogether  enshrined  on  "cloudy 
Olympus,"  invisible  to  mortal  ken.  The  shelves 
were  gay  with  morocco,  Russia  leather,  and  gild- 
ing—  not  much  used,  as  I  thought,  till  my  eye 
caught  one  of  the  gorgeously  bound  volumes  lying 
on  the  table  in  a  loose  cover  of  polished  leather  — 
a  refinement  of  which  poor  I  should  never  have 
dreamt.  The  walls  were  covered  with  prints,  which 
soon  turned  my  eyes  from  everything  else,  to 
range  delighted  over  Landseers,  Turners,  Roberts's 
Eastern  sketches,  the  ancient  Italian  masters ;  and 
I  recognized,  with  a  sort  of  friendly  affection,  an 
old  print  of  my  favorite  St.  Sebastian,  in  the  Dul- 
wich  Gallery.  It  brought  back  to  my  mind  a 
thousand  dreams  and  a  thousand  sorrows.  Would 
those  dreams  be  ever  realized?  Might  this  new 
acquaintance  possibly  open  some  pathway  towards 
their  fulfilment?  —  some  vista  towards  the  attain- 
ment of  a  station  where  they  would,  at  least,  be 
less  chimerical?  And  at  that  thought,  my  heart 
beat  loud  with  hope.  The  room  was  choked  up 
with   chairs   and   tables,   of   all   sorts   of  strange 


332    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

shapes  and  problematical  uses.  The  floor  was 
strewed  with  skins  of  bear,  deer,  and  seal.  In  a 
corner  lay  hunting-whips,  and  fishing-rods,  foils, 
boxing-gloves,  and  gun-cases ;  while  over  the 
chimney-piece,  an  array  of  rich  Turkish  pipes,  all 
amber  and  enamel,  contrasted  curiously  with  quaint 
old  swords  and  daggers  —  bronze  classic  casts, 
upon  Gothic  oak  brackets,  and  fantastic  scraps  of 
continental  carving.  On  the  centre  table,  too, 
reigned  the  same  rich  profusion,  or  if  you  will, 
confusion  —  MSS.,  "  Notes  in  Egypt,'  "  Goethe's 
Walverwandschaften,"  "  Murray's  Hand-books," 
and  "  Plato's  Republic."  What  was  there  not 
there?  And  I  chuckled  inwardly,  to  see  how 
"Bell's  Life  in  London"  and  the  "Ecclesiologist" 
had,  between  them,  got  down  "  McCulloch  on  Taxa- 
tion," and  were  sitting,  arm-in-arm,  triumphantly 
astride  of  him.  Everything  in  the  room,  even  to  the 
fragrant  flowers  in  a  German  glass,  spoke  of  a  trav- 
elled and  cultivated  luxury  —  manifold  tastes  and 
powers  of  self-enjoyment  and  self-improvement, 
which  Heaven  forgive  me  if  I  envied,  as  I  looked 
upon  them.  If  I,  now,  had  had  one-twentieth  part 
of  those  books,  prints,  that  experience  of  life,  not 
to  mention  that  physical  strength  and  beauty, 
which  stood  towering  there  before  the  fire  —  so 
simple,  so  utterly  unconscious  of  the  innate  noble- 
ness and  grace  which  shone  out  from  every  motion 
of  those  stately  limbs  and  features  —  all  the  deli- 
cacy which  blood  can  give,  combined,  as  one  does 
sometimes  see,  with  the  broad  strength  of  the  pro- 
letarian —  so  different  from  poor  me !  —  and  so  dif- 
ferent, too,  as  I  recollected  with  perhaps  a  savage 
pleasure,  from  the  miserable,  stunted  specimens  of 
over-bred  imbecility  whom  I  had  often  passed  in 


The  Lost  Idol  Found  333 

London !  A  strange  question  that  of  birth  !  and 
one  in  which  the  philosopher,  in  spite  of  himself, 
must  come  to  democratic  conclusions.  For,  after 
all,  the  physical  and  intellectual  superiority  of  the 
high-born  is  only  preserved,  as  it  was  in  the  old 
Norman  times,  by  the  continual  practical  abnega- 
tion of  the  very  caste-lie  on  which  they  pride  them- 
selves —  by  continual  renovation  of  their  race,  by 
intermarriage  with  the  ranks  below  them.  The 
blood  of  Odin  flowed  in  the  veins  of  Norman  Wil- 
liam ;  true  —  and  so  did  the  tanner's  of  Falaise ! 

At  last  he  looked  up  and  spoke  courteously  — 

"  I  'm  afraid  I  have  kept  you  long  ;  but  now, 
here  is  for  your  corrections,  which  are  capital.  I 
have  really  to  thank  you  for  a  lesson  in  writing 
English."     And  he  put  a  sovereign  into  my  hand. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  said  I,  "  but  I  have  no 
change." 

"Never  mind  that.  Your  work  is  well  worth 
the  money." 

"  But,"  I  said,  "  you  agreed  with  me   for  five 

shillings  a   sheet,   and 1    do  not  wish   to   be 

rude,  but  I  cannot  accept  your  kindness.  We 
workingmen  make  a  rule  of  abiding  by  our  wages, 
and  taking  nothing  which  looks  like " 

"  Well,  well  —  and  a  very  good  rule  it  is.  I  sup- 
pose, then,  I  must  find  out  some  way  for  you  to 
earn  more.  Good  afternoon."  And  he  motioned 
me  out  of  the  room,  followed  me  downstairs,  and 
turned  off  towards  the  college  gardens. 

I  wandered  up  and  down,  feeding  my  greedy 
eyes,  till  I  found  myself  again  upon  the  bridge 
where  I  had  stood  that  morning,  gazing  with 
admiration  and  astonishment  at  a  scene  which  I 
have  often  expected  to  see  painted  or  described. 


334    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

and  which,  nevertheless,  in  spite  of  its  unique 
magnificence,  seems  strangely  overlooked  by  those 
who  cater  for  the  public  taste,  with  pen  and  pencil. 
The  vista  of  bridges,  brie  after  another  spanning 
the  stream  ;  the  long  line  of  great  monastic  palaces, 
all  unlike,  and  yet  all  in  harmony,  sloping  down 
to  the  stream,  with  their  trim  lawns  and  ivied  walls, 
their  towers  and  buttresses;  and  opposite  them, 
the  range  of  rich  gardens  and  noble  timber  trees, 
dimly  seen  through  which,  at  the  end  of  the  gor- 
geous river  avenue,  towered  the  lofty  buildings  of 
St  John's.  The  whole  scene,  under  the  glow  of  a 
rich  May  afternoon,  seemed  to  me  a  fragment  out 
of  "  The  Arabian  Nights "  or  Spenser's  "  Fairy 
Queen."  I  leaned  upon  the  parapet,  and  gazed, 
and  gazed,  so  absorbed  in  wonder  and  enjoyment, 
that  I  was  quite  unconscious,  for  some  time,  that 
Lord  Lynedale  was  sianding  by  my  side,  engaged 
in  the  same  employment.  He  was  not  alone. 
Hanging  on  his  arm  was  a  lady,  whose  face,  it 
seemed  to  me,  I  ought  to  know.  It  certainly  was 
one  not  to  be  easily  forgotten.  She  was  beautiful, 
but  with  the  face  and  figure  rather  of  a  Juno  than 
a  Venus  —  dark,  imperious,  restless  —  the  lips  al- 
most too  firmly  set,  the  brow  almost  too  massive 
and  projecting  —  a  queen,  rather  to  be  feared  than 
loved  —  but  a  queen  still,  as  truly  royal  as  the 
man  into  whose  face  she  was  looking  up  with 
eager  admiration  and  delight,  as  he  pointed  out  to 
her  eloquently  the  several  beauties  of  the  land- 
scape. Her  dress  was  as  plain  as  that  of  any 
Quaker;  but  the  grace  of  its  arrangement,  of 
every  line  and  fold,  was  enough,  without  the  help 
of  the  heavy  gold  bracelet  on  her  wrist,  to  pro- 
claim her  a  fine  lady ;  by  which  term,  I  wish  to 


The  Lost  Idol  Found  335 

express  the  result  of  that  perfect  education  in  taste 
and  manner,  down  to  every  gesture,  which  Heaven 
forbid  that  I,  professing  to  be  a  poet,  should  un- 
dervalue. It  is  beautiful;  and  therefore  I  wel- 
come it,  in  the  name  of  the  Author  of  all  beauty. 
I  value  it  so  highly,  that  I  would  fain  see  it  extend, 
not  merely  from  Belgravia  to  the  tradesman's  villa, 
but  thence,  as  I  believe  it  one  day  will,  to  the  la- 
borer's hovel  and  the  needlewoman's  garret. 

Half  in  bashfulness,  half  in  the  pride  which 
shrinks  from  anything  like  intrusion,  I  was  moving 
away;  but  the  nobleman,  recognizing  me  with  a 
smile  and  a  nod,  made  some  observation  on  the 
beauty  of  the  scene  before  us.  Before  I  could 
answer,  however,  I  saw  that  his  companion's  eyes 
were  fixed  intently  on  my  face. 

"  Is  this,"  she  said  to  Lord  Lynedale,  "  the 
young  person  of  whom  you  were  speaking  to  me 
just  now?  I  fancy  that  I  recollect  him,  though,  I 
daresay,  he  has  forgotten  me." 

If  I  had  forgotten  the  face,  that  voice,  so  pecu- 
liarly rich,  deep,  and  marked  in  its  pronunciation 
of  every  syllable,  recalled  her  instantly  to  my 
mind.  It  was  the  dark  lady  of  the  Dulwich 
Gallery ! 

"  I  met  you,  I  think,"  I  said,  "  at  the  picture 
gallery  at  Dulwich,  and  you  were  kind  enough, 

and and  some  persons  who  were  with  you,  to 

talk  to  me  about  a  picture  there." 

"Yes;  Guido's  St.  Sebastian.  You  seemed 
fond  of  reading  then.  I  am  glad  to  see  you  at 
college." 

I  explained  that  I  was  not  at  college.  That  led 
to  fresh  gentle  questions  on  her  part,  till  I  had 
given  her   all   the  leading  points  of  my  history. 


33^     Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

There  was  nothing  in  it  of  which  I  ought  to  have 
been  ashamed. 

She  seemed  to  become  more  and  more  inter- 
ested in  my  story,  and  her  companion  also. 

"  And  have  you  tried  to  write?  I  recollect  my 
uncle  advising  you  to  try  a  poem  on  St  Sebastian. 
It  was  spoken,  perhaps,  in  jest ;  but  it  will  not,  I 
hope,  have  been  labor  lost,  if  you  have  taken  it 
in  earnest" 

"  Yes  —  I  have  written  on  that  and  on  other 
subjects,  during  the  last  few  years." 

"  Then,  you  must  let  us  see  them,  if  you  have 
them  with  you.  I  think  my  uncle,  Arthur,  might 
like  to  look  over  them;  and  if  they  were  fit  for 
publication,  he  might  be  able  to  do  something  to- 
wards it." 

"  At  all  events,"  said  Lord  Lynedale,  "  a  self- 
educated  author  is  always  interesting.  Bring  any 
of  your  poems,  that  you  have  with  you,  to  the 
Eagle  this  afternoon,  and  leave  them  there  for 
Dean  Winnstay;  and  to-morrow  morning,  if  you 
have  nothing  better  to  do,  call  there  between  ten 
and  eleven  o'clock." 

He  wrote  me  down  the  dean's  address,  and  nod- 
ding a  civil  good  morning,  turned  away  with  his 
queenly  companion,  while  I  stood  gazing  after  him, 
wondering  whether  all  noblemen  and  high-born 
ladies  were  like' them  in  person  and  in  spirit  —  a 
question  which,  in  spite  of  many  noble  exceptions, 
some  of  them  well  known  and  appreciated  by  the 
workingmen,  I  am  afraid  must  be  answered  in  the 
negative. 

I  took  my  MSS.  to  the  Eagle,  and  wandered  out 
once  more,  instinctively,  among  those  same  mag- 
nificent trees  at  the  back  of  the  colleges,  to  enjoy 


The  Lost  Idol  Found  337 

the  pleasing  torment  of  expectation.  "  My  uncle  ! " 
was  he  the  same  old  man  whom  I  had  seen  at  the 
gallery;  and  if  so,  was  Lillian  with  him?  Deli- 
cious hope !  And  yet,  what  if  she  was  with  him 
—  what  to  me?  But  yet  I  sat  silent,  dreaming,  all 
the  evening,  and  hurried  early  to  bed  —  not  to 
sleep,  but  to  lie  and  dream  on  and  on,  and  rise 
almost  before  light,  eat  no  breakfast,  and  pace  up 
and  down,  waiting  impatiently  for  the  hour  at  which 
I  was  to  find  out  whether  my  dream  was  true. 

And  it  was  true !  The  first  object  I  saw,  when  I 
entered  the  room,  was  Lillian,  looking  more  beau- 
tiful than  ever.  The  child  of  sixteen  had  blos- 
somed into  the  woman  of  twenty.  The  ivory  and 
vermilion  of  the  complexion  had  toned  down  to- 
gether into  still  richer  hues.  The  dark  hazel  eyes 
shone  with  a  more  liquid  lustre.  The  figure  had 
become  more  rounded,  without  losing  a  line  of 
that  fairy  lightness,  with  which  her  light  morning- 
dress,  with  its  delicate  French  semi-tones  of  color, 
gay  and  yet  not  gaudy,  seemed  to  harmonize. 
The  little  plump  jewelled  hands  —  the  transparent 
chestnut  hair,  banded  round  the  beautiful  oval 
masque  —  the  tiny  feet,  which,  as  Suckling  has  it, 

Underneath  her  petticoat 

Like  little  mice  p>eeped  in  and  out 

I  could   have   fallen  down,  fool   that  I  was !  and 

worshipped what?     I  could  not  tell  then,  for 

I  cannot  tell  even  now. 

The  dean  smiled  recognition,  bade  me  sit  down, 
and  disposed  my  papers,  meditatively,  on  his  knee. 
I  obeyed  him,  trembling,  choking — my  eyes  de- 
vouring my  idol  —  forgetting  why  I  had  come  — 
seeing  nothing  but  her  —  listening  for  nothing  but 


338     Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

the  opening  of  those  lips.  I  believe  the  dean  was 
some  sentences  deep  in  his  oration,  before  I  be- 
came conscious  thereof. 

" And  I  think  I  may  tell  you,  at  once,  that 

I  have  been  very  much  surprised  and  gratified  with 
them.  They  evince,  on  the  whole,  a  far  greater 
acquaintance  with  the  English  classic-models,  and 
with  the  laws  of  rhyme  and  melody,  than  could 
have  been  expected  from  a  young  man  of  your 
class  —  max:te  virtute  puer.  Have  you  read  any 
Latin?" 

"A  little."  And  I  went  on  staring  at  Lillian, 
who  looked  up,  furtively,  from  her  work,  every 
now  and  then,  to  steal  a  glance  at  me,  and  set  my 
poor  heart  thumping  still  more  fiercely  against  my 
side. 

"Very  good;  you  will  have  the  less  trouble, 
then,  in  the  preparation  for  college.  You  will 
find  out  for  yourself,  of  course,  the  immense  dis- 
advantages of  self-education.  The  fact  is,  my  dear 
lord  "  (turning  to  Lord  Lynedale),  "  it  is  only  use- 
ful as  an  indication  of  a  capability  of  being  edu- 
cated by  others.  One  never  opens  a  book  written 
by  workingmen,  without  shuddering  at  a  hundred 
faults  of  style.  However,  there  are  some  very 
tolerable  attempts  among  these — especially  the 
imitations  of  Milton's  '  Comus.' " 

Poor  I  had  by  no  means  intended  them  as  imi- 
tations ;  but  such,  no  doubt,  they  were. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  see  that  Shelley  has  had  so  much 
Influence  on  your  writing.  He  is  a  guide  as  irregu- 
lar in  taste  as  unorthodox  ^n  doctrine;  though 
there  are  some  pretty  things  in  him  now  and  then. 
And  you  have  caught  his  melody  tolerably  here, 
now " 


The  Lost  Idol  Found  339 

"  Oh,  that  is  such  a  sweet  thing !  "  said  Lillian. 
"  Do  you  know,  I  read  it  over  and  over  last  night, 
and  took  it  upstairs  with  me.  How  very  fond  of 
beautiful  things  you  must  be,  Mr.  Locke,  to  be 
able  to  describe  so  passionately  the  longing  after 
them." 

That  voice  once  more !  It  intoxicated  me,  so 
that  I  hardly  knew  what  I  stamniered  out  —  some- 
thing about  workingmen  having  very  few  oppor- 
tunities of  indulging  the  taste  for  —  I  forget  what 
I  believe  I  was  on  the  point  of  running  off  into 
some  absurd  compliment,  but  I  caught  the  dark 
lady's  warning  eye  on  me. 

"  Ah,  yes !  I  forgot.  I  daresay  it  must  be  a 
very  stupid  life.  So  little  opportunity,  as  he  says. 
What  a  pity  he  is  a  tailor,  papa !  Such  an  un- 
imaginative employment!  How  delightful  it  would 
be  to  send  him  to  college  and  make  him  a  clergy- 
man 1  " 

Fool  that  I  was  I  I  fancied  —  what  did  I  not 
fancy? — never  seeing  how  that  very  *'/ie"  bespoke 
the  indifference  —  the  gulf  between  us.  I  was  not 
a  man  —  an  equal ;  but  a  thing  —  a  subject,  who 
was  to  be  talked  over,  and  examined,  and  made 
into  something  like  themselves,  of  their  supreme 
and  undeserved  benevolence. 

"  Gently,  gently,  fair  lady !  We  must  not  be  as 
headlong  as  some  people  would  kindly  wish  to  be. 
If  this  young  man  really  has  a  proper  desire  to  rise 
into  a  higher  station,  and  I  find  him  a  fit  object  to 
be  assisted  in  that  praiseworthy  ambition,  why,  I 
think  he  ought  to  go  to  some  training  college ;  St 
Mark's,  I  should  say,  on  the  whole,  might  by  ita 
strong  Church  principles,  give  the  best  antidote  to 
any  little  remaining  taint  of  sansculottism.     You 


340    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

understand  me,  my  lord  ?  And,  then,  if  he  dis- 
tinguished himself  there,  it  would  be  time  to  think 
of  getting  him  a  sizarship." 

"  Poor  Pegasus  in  harness !  "  half  smiled,  half 
sighed,  the  dark  lady. 

"Just  the  sort  of  youth,"  whispered  Lord  Lyne- 
dale,  loud  enough  for  me  to  hear,  "  to  take  out  with 
us  to  the  Mediterranean  as  secretary  —  s'il  y  avait 
\k  de  la  morale,  of  course  —  " 

Yes  —  and  of  course,  too,  the  tailor's  boy  was 
not  expected  to  understand  French.  But  the  most 
absurd  thing  was,  how  everybody,  except  perhaps 
the  dark  lady,  seemed  to  take  for  granted  that  I 
felt  myself  exceedingly  honored,  and  must  con- 
sider it,  as  a  matter  of  course,  the  greatest  pos- 
sible stretch  of  kindness  thus  to  talk  me  over,  and 
settle  everything  for  me,  as  if  I  was  not  a  living 
soul,  but  a  plant  in  a  pot.  Perhaps  they  were 
not  unsupported  by  experience.  I  suppose  too 
many  of  us  would  have  thought  it  so ;  there  are 
flunkeys  in  all  ranks,  and  to  spare.  Perhaps  the 
true  absurdity  was  the  way  in  which  I  sat,  de- 
mented, inarticulate,  staring  at  Lillian,  and  only 
caring  for  any  word  which  seemed  to  augur  a 
chance  of  seeing  her  again ;  instead  of  saying,  as 
I  felt,  that  I  had  no  wish  whatever  to  rise  above 
my  station ;  no  intention  whatever  of  being  sent 
to  training  schools  or  colleges,  or  anywhere  else 
at  the  expense  of  other  people.  And  therefore  it 
was  that  I  submitted  blindly,  when  the  dean,  who 
looked  as  kind,  and  was  really,  I  believe,  as  kind 
as  ever  was  human  being,  turned  to  me  with  a 
solemn  authoritative  voice  — 

"  Well,  my  young  friend,  I  must  say  that  I  am, 
on  the  whole,  very  much  pleased  with  your  per- 


The  Lost  Idol  Found  341 

formance.  It  corroborates,  my  dear  lord,  the  as- 
sertion, for  which  I  have  been  so  often  ridiculed, 
that  there  are  many  real  men,  capable  of  higher 
things,  scattered  up  and  down  among  the  masses. 
Attend  to  me,  sir !  "  (a  hint  which  I  suspect  I  very 
much  wanted).  "Now,  recollect;  if  it  should  be 
hereafter  in  our  power  to  assist  your  prospects  in 
life,  you  must  give  up,  once  and  for  all,  the  bitter 
tone  against  the  higher  classes,  which  I  am  sorry 
to  see  in  your  MSS.  As  you  know  more  of  the 
world,  you  will  find  that  the  poor  are  not  by  any 
means  as  ill-used  as  they  are  taught,  in  these  days, 
to  believe.  The  rich  have  their  sorrows  too  —  no 
one  knows  it  better  than  I "  —  (and  he  played  pen- 
sively with  his  gold  pencil-case)  —  "  and  good  and 
evil  are  pretty  equally  distributed  among  all  ranks, 
by  a  just  and  merciful  God.  I  advise  you  most 
earnestly,  as  you  value  your  future  success  in  life, 
to  give  up  reading  those  unprincipled  authors, 
whose  aim  is  to  excite  the  evil  passions  of  the 
multitude ;  and  to  shut  your  ears  betimes  to  the 
extravagant  calumnies  of  demagogues,  who  make 
tools  of  enthusiastic  and  imaginative  minds  for 
their  own  selfish  aggrandizement.  Avoid  politics ; 
the  workman  has  no  more  to  do  with  them  than 
the  clergyman.  We  are  told,  on  divine  authority, 
to  fear  God  and  the  king,  and  meddle  not  with 
those  who  are  given  to  change.  Rather  put  be- 
fore yourself  the  example  of  such  a  man  as  the 
excellent  Dr.  Brown,  one  of  the  richest  and  most 
respected  men  of  the  university,  with  whom  I  hope 
to  have  the  pleasure  of  dining  this  evening  —  and 
yet  that  man  actually,  for  several  years  of  his  life, 
worked  at  a  carpenter's  bench  !  " 

I  too  had  something  to  say  about  all  that.     I 


^^5> 


342    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

too  knew  something  about  demagogues  and  work- 
ingmen:  but  the  sight  of  Lillian  made  me  a 
coward ;  and  I  only  sat  silent  as  the  thought 
flashed  across  me,  half  ludicrous,  half  painful,  by 
its  contrast,  of  another  who  once  worked  at  a  car- 
penter's bench,  and  fulfilled  His  mission  —  not  by 
an  old  age  of  wealth,  respectability,  and  port  wine; 
but  on  the  Cross  of  Calvary.  After  all,  the  worthy 
old  gentleman  gave  me  no  time  to  answer. 

"  Next  —  I  think  of  showing  these  MSS.  to  my 
publisher,  to  get  his  opinion  as  to  whether  they 
are  worth  printing  just  now.  Not  that  I  wish  you 
to  build  much  on  the  chance.  It  is  not  necessary 
that  you  should  be  a  poet.  I  should  prefer  mathe- 
matics for  you,  as  a  methodic  discipline  of  the 
intellect.  Most  active  minds  write  poetry,  at  a 
certain  age  —  I  wrote  a  good  deal,  I  recollect, 
myself.  But  that  is  no  reason  for  publishing. 
This  haste  to  rush  into  print  is  one  of  the  bad 
signs  of  the  times  —  a  symptom  of  the  unhealthy 
activity  which  was  first  called  out  by  the  French 
Revolution.  In  the  Elizabethan  age,  every  de- 
cently educated  gentleman  was  able,  as  a  matter 
of  course,  to  indite  a  sonnet  to  his  mistress's  eye- 
brow, or  an  epigram  on  his  enemy;  and  yet  he 
never  dreamt  of  printing  them.  One  of  the  few 
rational  things  I  have  met  with,  Eleanor,  in  the 
works  of  your  very  objectionable  pet  Mr.  Carlyle 
—  though  indeed  his  style  is  too  intolerable  to 
have  allowed  me  to  read  much  —  is  the  remark 
that '  speech  is  silver  *  — '  silvern '  he  calls  it,  pe- 
dantically —  *  while  silence  is  golden.' " 

At  this  point  of  the  sermon,  Lillian  fled  from 
the  room,  to  my  extreme  disgust.  But  still  th» 
old  man  prosed  — 


The  Lost  Idol  Found  343 

"I  think,  therefore,  that  you  had  better  stay 
with  your  cousin  for  the  next  week.  I  hear  from 
Lord  Lynedale  that  he  is  a  very  studious,  moral, 
rising  young  man ;  and  I  only  hope  that  you  will 
follow  his  good  example.  At  the  end  of  the  week 
I  shall  return  home,  and  then  I  shall  be  glad  to 
see  more  of  you  at  my  house  at  D — — ,  about 
miles  from  this  place.     Good  morning." 

I  went,  in  rapture  at  the  last  announcement  — 
and  yet  my  conscience  smote  me.  I  had  not 
stood  up  for  the  workingmen.  I  had  heard  them 
calumniated,  and  held  my  tongue  —  but  I  was  to 
see  Lillian.  I  had  let  the  dean  fancy  I  was  willing 
to  become  a  pensioner  on  his  bounty  —  that  I  was 
a  member  of  the  Church  of  England,  and  willing 
to  go  to  a  Church  Training  School  —  but  I  was  to 
see  Lillian.  I  had  lowered  myself  in  my  own  eyes 
—  but  I  had  seen  Lillian.  Perhaps  I  exaggerated 
my  own  ofifences :  however  that  may  be,  love  soon 
silenced  conscience,  and  I  almost  danced  into  my 
cousin's  rooms  on  my  return. 

•  •  •  •  •  • 

That  week  passed  rapidly  and  happily.  I  was 
half  amused  with  the  change  in  my  cousin's 
demeanor.  I  had  evidently  risen  immensely  in 
his  eyes;  and  I  could  not  help  applying,  in  my 
heart,  to  him,  Mr.  Carlyle's  dictum  about  the  valet 
species  —  how  they  never  honor  the  unaccredited 
hero,  having  no  eye  to  find  him  out  till  properly 
accredited,  and  countersigned,  and  accoutred  with 
full  uniform  and  diploma  by  that  great  god,  Pub- 
lic Opinion.  I  saw  through  the  motive  of  his  new- 
fledged  respect  for  me  —  and  yet  encouraged  it; 
for  it  flattered  my  vanity.  The  world  must  forgive 
me.     It  was  something  for  the  poor  tailor  to  find 


344    Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

himself  somewhat  appreciated  at  last,  even  out- 
wardly. And  besides,  this  sad  respect  took  a 
form  which  was  very  tempting  to  me  now  — 
though  the  week  before  it  was  just  the  one  which 
I  should  have  repelled  with  scorn.  George  became 
very  anxious  to  lend  me  money,  to  order  me 
clothes  at  his  own  tailor's,  and  set  me  up  in  various 
little  toilette  refinements,  that  I  might  make  a 
respectable  appearance  at  the  dean's.  I  knew  that 
he  consulted  rather  the  honor  of  the  family,  than 
my  good ;  but  I  did  not  know  that  his  aim  was 
also  to  get  me  into  his  power ;  and  I  jrefused  more 
and  more  weakly  at  each  fresh  offer,  and  at  last 
consented,  in  an  evil  hour,  to  sell  my  own  inde- 
pendence, for  the  sake  of  indulging  my  love- 
dream,  and  appearing  to  be  what  I  was  not. 

I  saw  little  of  the  University  men ;  less  than  I 
might  have  done;  less,  perhaps,  than  I  ought  to 
have  done.  My  cousin  did  not  try  to  keep  me 
from  them ;  they,  whenever  I  met  them,  did  not 
shrink  from  me,  and  were  civil  enough:  but  I 
shrank  from  them.  My  cousin  attributed  my 
reserve  to  modesty,  and  praised  me  for  it  in  his 
coarse  fashion:  but  he  was  mistaken.  Pride, 
rather,  and  something  very  like  envy,  kept  me 
silent.  Always  afraid  (at  that  period  of  my 
career)  of  young  men  of  my  own  age,  I  was 
doubly  afraid  of  these  men;  not  because  they 
were  cleverer  than  I,  for  they  were  not,  but  be- 
cause I  fancied  I  had  no  fair  chance  with  them ; 
they  had  opportunities  which  I  had  not,  read  and 
talked  of  books  of  which  I  knew  nothing;  and 
when  they  did  touch  on  matters  which  I  fancied  I 
understood,  it  was  from  a  point  of  view  so  different 
from  mine,  that  I  had  to  choose,  as  I  thought. 


The  Lost  Idol  Found  345 

between  standing  up  alone  to  be  baited  by  the 
whole  party,  or  shielding  myself  behind  a  proud 
and  somewhat  contemptuous  silence.  I  looked  on 
them  as  ignorant  aristocrats;  while  they  looked 
on  me,  I  verily  believe  now,  as  a  very  good  sort  of 
fellow,  who  ought  to  talk  well,  but  would  not ;  and 
went  their  way  carelessly.  The  truth  is,  I  did 
envy  those  men.  I  did  not  envy  them  their  learn- 
ing ;  for  the  niajority  of  men  who  came  into  my 
cousin's  room  had  no  learning  to  envy,  being 
rather  brilliant  and  agreeable  men  than  severe 
students  ;  but  I  envied  them  their  opportunities  of 
learning;  and  envied  them  just  as  much  their 
opportunities  of  play  —  their  boating,  their  cricket, 
their  football,  their  riding,  and  their  gay  confident 
carriage,  which  proceeds  from  physical  health  and 
strength,  and  which  I  mistook  for  the  swagger  of 
insolence ;  while  Parker's  Piece,  with  its  games, 
was  a  sight  which  made  me  grind  my  teeth,  when 
I  thought  of  the  very  different  chance  of  physical 
exercise  which  falls  to  the  lot  of  a  London  artisan. 
And  still  more  did  I  envy  them  when  I  found 
that  many  of  them  combined,  as  my  cousin  did, 
this  physical  exercise  with  really  hard  mental 
work,  and  found  the  one  help  the  other.  It  was 
bitter  to  me — whether  it  ought  to  have  been  so 
or  not  —  to  hear  of  prizemen,  wranglers,  fellows  of 
colleges,  as  first-rate  oars,  boxers,  football  players ; 
and  my  eyes  once  fairly  filled  with  tears,  when, 
after  the  departure  of  a  little  fellow  no  bigger  or 
heavier  than  myself,  but  with  the  eye  and  the  gait 
of  a  ganlecock,  I  was  informed  that  he  was  "  bow- 
oar  in  the  University  eight,  and  as  sure  to  be 
senior  classic  next  year  as  he  has  a  head  on  his 
shoulders."     And  I  thought  of  my  nights  of  study 


346     Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet 

in  the  lean-to  garret,  and  of  the  tailor's  workshop, 
and  of  Sandy's  den,  and  said  to  myself  bitter 
words,  which  I  shall  not  set  down.  Let  gentlemen 
readers  imagine  them  for  themselves;  and  judge 
rationally  and  charitably  of  an  unhealthy  work- 
ingman  like  me,  if  his  tongue  be  betrayed,  at 
moments,  to  envy,  hatred,  malice,  and  all  un- 
charitableness. 

However,  one  happiness  I  had  —  books.  I  read 
in  my  cousin's  room  from  morning  till  night.  He 
gave  me  my  meals  hospitably  enough:  but  dis- 
appeared every  day  about  four  to  *'  hall " ;  after 
which  he  did  not  reappear  till  eight,  the  interval 
being  taken  up,  he  said,  in  "  wines  "  and  an  hour 
of  billiards.  Then  he  sat  down  to  work,  and  read 
steadily  and  well  till  twelve,  while  I,  nothing  loath, 
did  the  same ;  and  so  passed,  rapidly  enough,  my 
week  at  Cambridge. 


END   OF  VOL.  I. 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

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